


Night Vale: The Musical: Act I

by ErinPtah



Series: Night Vale: The Musical [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: BAMF Tamika, Clones, Crack, Established Relationship, F/F, M/M, Musical References, Sisters, Strexcorp is Evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 60,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One morning, Carlos spontaneously bursts into song on his way to work. Then the people around him start singing backup. Turns out everyone in the greater Night Vale & Desert Bluffs area has started breaking into random musical numbers...just in time to hold the world's most well-choreographed corporate invasion.</p><p>Canon-divergent starting from Yellow Helicopters, although in the beginning the main difference is that more of it is set to music. Song links can be found at the end of every chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I, tracks 1-3

**Author's Note:**

> It's possible I'm having too much fun with this.
> 
> Feel free to make requests for future songs! The story has an overall plot and lots of upcoming numbers already planned, so I can't guarantee all suggestions will be taken, but don't hesitate to ask.
> 
> Permissions:  
>  **Do** sing these lyrics, illustrate them, make recordings of them, dress up in cosplay and film whole scenes using them...seriously, if anyone wants to do that last one, you will make my year.  
>  **Do** include authorial credit with any recordings you make. And comment here with a link!  
>  **Don't** repost a parody's complete lyrics (or even large chunks of a parody's lyrics) in other places. Short quotes with a link, all right? (If you're on Tumblr, please [reblog them from here](http://bicatperson.tumblr.com/tagged/Night-Vale%3A-The-Musical).)

If Carlos had known he was going to be the star of the first big musical number that morning, he would have put on a nicer shirt.

As it was, he stepped out of the front door of the house the science team was renting in a ratty T-shirt, khaki shorts, and tennis shoes still stained with purple goo from that incident with the giant clams. And his lab coat, of course. You couldn't do Science without a lab coat, and you never knew when the need would strike.

The messenger bag over his shoulder (with a sparkly eyeball-shaped keychain, a gift from Cecil, dangling from the main zipper) held the usual mess of stuff. His phone, his notebook, a couple of pens and markers. A notarized copy of his official Writing Utensil Exemption permit from City Hall. Sterile gloves and sample bags. Some cash. A bus pass.

He pulled out the bus pass as he approached his stop, waved a companionable hello to Janice Rio (down the street), then took a skipping step along the sidewalk as disembodied music started to play.

He hadn't known the music was coming. Rather, it started in perfect time to his steps, as if it had been waiting for its cue.

Without planning to, Carlos started to sing.

"Oh, oh, oh, woke up today feeling the way I always do — oh, oh, oh, hungry for something I can't ingest — at least, not in tests —"

A block ahead of him, the bus turned a corner and rumbled onto his street. Carlos picked up his pace, reaching the stop just as it squeaked to a halt, doors opening to meet him.

"That rhythm of town starts calling me down — it's like a message from high above! Oh, oh, oh, pulling me out to the smiles and the streets that I love —"

He spun into the aisle and sang to the passengers already in the seats, which would have felt a lot weirder if they hadn't spontaneously formed a chorus and started harmonizing.

"Good morning, Night Vale! Every day's like a fairy tale! Every test is a quandary — each result is a mystery — good morning, Night Vale! And one day when I write up, in full, this work...then the whole world will see: Night Vale and me!"

The ride seemed to go by a lot faster than usual. It was one of the standard time-distortion phenomenon Carlos had catalogued in the Night Vale area: the "montage effect."

He swung off the bus and took a few more skipping steps into Big Rico's.

"Oh, oh, oh, look at my hair — what 'do can compare with mine today?" he sang, flipping it over his shoulder and getting a smattering of applause from the customers and staff (who were also singing along, thank goodness). He grinned at the woman behind the counter, who knew his usual and was already handing it over, then beamed up at the speaker near the ceiling: Cecil's show didn't start for hours, but NVCR was playing all the same. "Oh, oh, oh, I've got my pizza and radio — I'm ready to go!"

It took some quick footwork to avoid squashing any of the tarantulas ahead of him in line. They waved hello as they scurried out of the way.

"The spiders I meet all dance around my feet: they seem to say, 'Carlos, it's up to you!'" Carlos handed over a couple of dollars, then spun on his heel. "So, oh, oh, don't hold me back, 'cause right here all my dreams will come true —"

He burst out into the sunshine, where a fresh ensemble sang along with him: "— good morning, Night Vale!"

Carlos tipped a quick salute to the ones in all black, with short capes and balaclavas. "There's my Secret Police detail!" The other group, tall and winged and in some cases on fire, he greeted with a short bow. "There's some angels — who are not real! They wish me luck with my grant appeal. Good morning, Night Vale! Swear someday I will write up, in full, this work, so the whole world can see — Night Vale and me!"

He had a quick stop to make in the lab, where a couple of his fellow scientists were hard at work. Carlos swept past the tables with their bubbling beakers, long white coat fluttering out behind him.

"I test and retest — the data come through," he sang in frustration, retrieving one of his favorite pieces of humming electrical equipment from the supply cabinet. "I know that they sound like they can't be true. I'm sure my submissions are going unread...just let me get published before I drop dead!"

"Before he drops dead!" came a helpful backup chorus from Dave, Rochelle, and (outside the window) a couple of Secret Police officers.

Familiar businesses rushed by outside the window of another bus, this one headed even farther downtown. "So, oh, oh, give me a break! Not a number is faked, in this town of ours," sighed Carlos, sinking into his seat, now accompanied by a soft choir of angels flying alongside the vehicle. "Oh, oh, oh, we're at the heart of a weirdness blitz...and I love it to bits!"

He grabbed a handful of papers out of his bag, shaking them, as if he had the grant manager sitting in front of him right now.

"My brain says it's wrong...but the tests come out strong! Stay up all night just to make the charts," he intoned to no one in particular, as they slowed in front of a parking lot Carlos knew like the back of his hand. The montage effect was hitting hard this morning. "Oh, oh, a scientist's dream, is this town that's grown into my heart...."

He stepped off of the latest bus...and spotted a figure standing across the lot, silhouetted against the building. Lighting up, Carlos broke into a run: heedless of the artful swirl of papers that flew out behind him, totally not listening to the choral repetition of his last couple of lines. Disembodied drums pounded along with his heartbeat.

"I love you, Night Vale!" he burst out, catching a delighted Cecil's hands and pulling him into a two-step across the asphalt. "Every day's like a fairy tale! Every test is a quandary — each result is a mystery. And I promise, Night Vale, that some day when I publish this all, the world's gonna wake up and see...Night Vale and me!"

They were fully surrounded by his backup chorus now: police officers, angels, a couple of NVCR interns, one or two hooded figures, and the customers sitting under the outdoor awnings at the White Sands ice cream shop. Dozens of voices harmonized as Carlos reiterated that last line a few more times, holding the final note much longer than he would normally have been able to keep up.

With one final crescendo, the music that had been following him all morning finally shut off.

Carlos stumbled to a stop, just in time not to trip over his own feet. Apparently whatever force had gifted him with a Broadway singing range and matching dance moves had deserted him all at once. "Uh...hi."

Cecil, a little out-of-breath and with his hair fetchingly tousled by the unexpected spinning, beamed at him. "Carlos, that was _amazing!_ Did you come all this way just to sing to me?"

"No," said Carlos. He didn't realize how blunt it would sound until Cecil's face fell. "That is, I did come here to _see_ you! And to do science, obviously. But the singing part, that just sort of, um, happened. I don't even have enough data to hypothesize where it came from."

"Oh, do you not get musical fronts back east?" asked Cecil with interest.

"A what?"

"A couple of days where everyone has a chance to burst into song! Or a couple of weeks, or even longer, depending on how strong it is. I took a peek at the weather earlier, and it looks like this is a really big one coming through." Cecil pulled his hands out of Carlos's to clap in excitement. "Oh, I hope it lasts long enough for us to do a duet!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, Josie," said Cecil, holding the phone against his ear with his shoulder while he tried to pry the Helicopter Reference Guide out of his office bookshelf. It wasn't easy. The stupid thing kept trying to bite him. "In fact, I saw some angels just this morning, singing with Carlos! I bet you anything they'll show up back at your house this afternoon, wanting to know if you've got the next season of _Breaking Bad_ yet. Whoops — sorry, gotta go —"

With one strong yank, he dragged the guide out from between the other books, losing his phone and tumbling to the carpet with his prize in hand. It shrieked, yanked out of his grip, and ran out the door.

Cecil scrambled after it into the hall, where he spotted an intern in the direction it was running. "Get it!" he shouted. "Stomp on it or something, come on!"

Vithya tried, but not nearly hard enough. The reference guide scurried past her...and slid itself under the door of Station Management. "Sorry!" she exclaimed, blinking back tears.

"No, it's all right." Cecil got to his feet and brushed himself off. "Just wait until I get to the tape room before you knock, understand?"

"I...I have to knock? On _management's door?_ "

"How else do you expect to get that book back?" asked Cecil. "And we need it, to figure out what's going on with those oddly-colored helicopters you've been collecting reports on. Give me two minutes, and if you haven't come to see me in ten, I'll assume the worst and start putting together your eulogy package."

With that, he booked it for the tape room.

Five minutes later, a red-eyed and slightly scorched Vithya joined him and a couple of other interns, carrying the Helicopter Reference Guide. It was growling, but subdued.

Also, a chipper beat had started playing around Cecil, with the deep resonance of a pipe organ.

"Good job," he told Vithya. (Speaking, not singing. Not yet, at least.) "Are you okay?"

"Angels aren't real," sniffled Vithya unhelpfully.

"How come management gets to do that to people?" demanded Intern Jésus. At least he had the sense to keep his voice low.

"First, she's only crying when angels come up," said Cecil sternly. "Which is a sign of someone who has been chosen by angels, which of course are not real, for special angelic purposes. Nothing to do with our bosses at all. And second...some things are tradition, and have been tradition ever since our little radio station was founded by mysterious unseen forces centuries ago. These traditions are what keep us grounded, able to do our jobs instead of collapsing screaming into the terrible void of uncertainty. Understand?"

Vague mumbles from the group. How long had this little thread of defiance been running through his staff? Cecil would have to shut it down. Hard.

The music around them did an extra little flourish, and he took his cue.

"Who, day and night, must slumber in its office, wave its tentacles, having nasty dreams?" he half-sang, half-chanted along with the pipe organ. "And who has the right, as station management, to drive its employees insane?"

All the interns dutifully chorused the answer along with him: "Our bosses, our bosses! Tradition!"

Then they plunged into a verse of their own. "Who must hide from mirrors, broadcast no dissent, serve management, and seem content? Who must look for hidden ways to circumvent the limits on what he can say? The anchor, the anchor! Tradition!"

(Cecil was really glad you couldn't get in trouble for any too-honest revelations delivered in song form during a musical front.)

"At nineteen, angels are a thing I cannot talk about," chanted Vithya, in a mournful tone. "And one way or another, soon my time...will run out."

"Who's always first to go, who fills the air with cries?" added her fellow interns. "Whose sanity is blasted, and then who usually dies? The interns, the interns! Tradition!"

They all sang in a round for a while, Cecil drumming them along — "Our bosses! The anchor! The interns! Tradition!" — before the music settled into a background beat. "Much better!" exclaimed Cecil. "Without our traditions, this job would be as unstable as...." He waved vaguely at the ceiling. "...as doing the broadcast from the roof!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Music wasn't exactly common in Strexcorp Synernists Inc.'s regional corporate headquarters in Desert Bluffs. There were company-approved instrumental tracks playing in the elevators, and that was about it. You didn't want to disrupt someone else's working environment, after all.

So Lauren Mallard was pretty surprised when, in the middle of a board meeting, the room was filled with what sounded like...drums? And then people around the table started chanting _hummm_ in time with the rhythm, which was even weirder.

She tried not to think about the fact that she was chanting too.

The Chair of the meeting had been explaining the details of the takeover that upper management had apparently been planning for almost a year, and that the rank-and-file were just finding out about now. So far, so good. Except then the Chair started _crooning_ , in a low, sonorous voice:

"I know that your corporate ambition...has a comfortable old paradigm. But we can add value, so listen: there's profit in bulk here to mine! It's clear, from your vacant expressions, there's not much to leverage upstairs...but with firm mission statements and roadmaps, even you can sustain it from there!"

The slideshow started flipping through reconnaissance photos from the next town over. Small local businesses. Big businesses: closer to their own values, but harder to buy out. Ordinary people, not a single one of them wearing Strex-branded merchandise, or getting paid in scrip only redeemable at Strex outlets.

"So prepare for some globalization!" sang the Chair, as the already un-businesslike music kicked up. "Be prepared for expanding your brand! A smiling new era is progressing nearer...."

Lauren raised her hand. "And what would be our part?" she half-sang.

"Just look at the org chart!" exclaimed the Chair, stopping at a slide that looked like an octopus playing cat's cradle. The music pounded around them, almost hard enough to shake the table. "I know it sounds high-risk, but we've run logistics, and we have a sustainable plan — with no small local businesses spared! Be prepared!"

The instruments settled into the calmer strains of background music as the employees thought it over. "Yeah, be prepared," said Shawn, from Sales. "Heh, we'll be prepared...For what?"

The Chair hit a button, and the slideshow flipped to a new image: a man Lauren both recognized and didn't recognize. Tan skin, dark hair, glasses: he looked so much like their own beloved Kevin, but with messier hair and purple eyes, and, apparently, no concept of the words _dress code_. "For the death of the Voice!"

"Why? Is he sick?" asked Sean, also from Sales.

"No, you fool, we're going to kill him." The Chair flipped to the next slide, this one showing a satellite photo of the Voice of Night Vale getting coffee with a stunningly handsome man in a lab coat. "And his scientist, too."

"Great idea! Who needs a Voice?" asked Shaun, and the whole Sales side of the table burst into a singsong chant that was clearly not part of the whole musical _thing_ , just them being them.

"Idiots! There will be a Voice!" barked the Chair.

"Hey, but you said, uh...."

The Chair flipped one more slide, and there was Desert Bluffs' familiar Kevin, smiling his cheery bloodstained smile at the camera. "A _company_ Voice! ...Stick with me, and you'll never see downsizing again!"

At last it got through. The Sales guys started to clap and cheer, and this time Lauren joined in. "Hooray for the merger! Hooray for the company! Hooray for the plan!"

Seemed like the next thing Lauren knew, she was on the floor of the nearest hangar. The Chair wanted to talk to her personally, as she was being tapped for programming director at the newly-bought Night Vale Corporate Radio.

The music was still going. All around them, people were suiting up, stowing weapons, and boarding helicopters. "It's great that we'll soon be connected with consumers from our neighbor town!" they chanted in the background.

"Of course, it'll be unexpected," crooned the Chair in a low voice, for Lauren's ears only. "But someday they'll all come around." Then, louder, over the sound of the first helicopter rotors starting to chop through the air: "It's such a win-win situation: once we run both economies, we'll get locals' cooperation...or hope they enjoy bankruptcy!"

Vehicles thundered; drums crashed. Lauren could barely hear the pilots now, and only because there were so many of them, chanting in perfect unison in the background.

"So prepare for the coup of the century!" growled the Chair, practically dancing down the center of the hangar as the helicopters lifted off around them. "Be prepared for the takeover plan! Meticulous planning, with synergy spanning from here to the heavens — so smile and say amen! We'll smile and we'll buy them, or napalm and fry them — our enterprise won't be denied! Yes, my teeth and ambitions are bared — be prepared!"

Lauren grinned a wide, sharp grin and did a little twirl of her own. "Yes, our teeth and ambitions are bared! Be prepared!"

Strexcorp employees were discouraged from having non-company-sanctioned fun. Oh, you were supposed to enjoy your job, and the more you smiled, the better...but getting too much enjoyment out of anything not strictly in your job description, and that probably meant you weren't working hard enough. Singing and dancing, for instance, were _definitely_ not in Lauren's job description.

Therefore, she was absolutely not having fun with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Good Morning Baltimore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLaM1d383eg)" (Hairspray), "[Tradition](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRdfX7ut8gw)" (Fiddler On The Roof) [with specific help from the lyrics of "[Tentacles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0URLGsf1e0)" (A Shoggoth On The Roof)], and "[Be Prepared](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08-uyfp2iPM)" (The Lion King).
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _I am the very model of a serious modern scientist / I study radiation leaks and houses that do not exist_


	2. Act I, tracks 4-7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strexcorp has taken over the station, and quickly starts remodeling, forcing all the old employees to march to their new beat. Carlos and Cecil continue getting solos in each other's presences, but they still haven't hit that much-anticipated romantic duet. In the meantime, Carlos harmonizes with his team, and Cecil shares a few notes with a voice he doesn't even remember.

When Cecil was particularly stressed at work, there were a couple of coping strategies he turned to. The first lay in the men's room: about four feet off the ground, next to the sink.

"Hey, buddy," he cooed, fluffing Khoshekh's fur and scratching his adorable kitty's chin. "How's my boy doing today, huh? New management isn't treating you any different, are they? Ooh, they better not. Yeah, that's right." Khoshekh was rolling over in midair, presenting Cecil's hand with exactly the parts of his body that most needed skritching. "That feel good, huh? What a sweet boy."

Up near the ceiling, one of the kittens mewed. It was a good thing there weren't any mirrors in this bathroom, because that sound would have shattered them.

"Yes, you're a good sweetie too," soothed Cecil. This was relaxing, all right, but he felt the need for something stronger. "I'm gonna go now. But I'll come back and check on you right before the show starts!"

His second coping strategy was found in a well-kept circle in the station prayer room. Cecil made his way down the halls to the door, which had an unblinking eyeball in the middle of its varnished wood: the iris currently solid green, indicating that the room was unoccupied.

He turned the knob...and stopped short.

How long had this room been full of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets?

"Looking for something, Cecil?" asked the too-smiley voice of his new Strexcorp-assigned program director.

"Um, yes," stammered Cecil, trying not to be unnerved by Lauren Mallard's really very distractingly sharp teeth.

That was when a soft guitar started strumming. Oh, good. It would be so much easier to have this conversation when he had the backup of a metered structure.

"Yes, where are our bloodstones? Where did the circle go? Should've told me when they were moved," he crooned, brows furrowed at her.

"Any owner of this building here has a right to use the space as it wishes," sang Lauren right back at him. She waved at the filing cabinets: "And this is more efficient!"

"So where—?"

"We threw them away!"

"You what?" blurted Cecil, actually falling out of the tune.

"Oh, I know you heard! Don't be absurd," sang/laughed Lauren. "And anyway, if you want to pray...? Downstairs, just over in the break room, see, we're building a lovely new shrine...that soon you can bow down to, any day!" With a broad gesture she indicated Cecil and a couple of other station staff that had come out to join him: not the new Strex people, but the other holdovers. "You'll see, boys! You'll see, boys...!"

Cecil glowered at her in silence. No, he would _not_ see.

"Of course, in good time, we'll be upgrading this entire studio," added Lauren, briefly dropping the rhythm herself. "All the equipment, and perhaps some employees...oh, no, it's not you I mean!" she trilled, patting Cecil on the arm. As if they were confidantes, she bent closer: "But, could you help with one small thing?"

"What?"

"The station doors...we can't seem to move them."

The doors were made of reclaimed bloodstone. Recently they had taken to refusing to open unless you bled on them, too. "Why not just pry them out and haul them off?"

"We tried, but they wouldn't let u—" Lauren coughed, and jumped hastily back into the tune. "I mean, they seem to be part of the structure, unshakably."

Cecil shrugged, not bothering to hide his smirk. "You know that I'm hardly an architect, Lauren. If you can't move them, maybe it's not meant to be."

It was Lauren's turn to glower. "You want to keep praying your own way? That's what you've got your homes for!" she sang in a chiding tone, folding her arms. "I'm sure you've got some bloodstones there — no need to have them near Strexcorp! You'll see, boys! You'll see, boys...!"

She backed away, now addressing the whole group:

"You'll see the beauty of a studio that does efficient work, and you'll pay...." A quick little shake. "I mean, of course, 'we'll pay you!' In scrip that's good to be used at any Strex-owned business, any day! You'll see!" Her shark's-grin swept over the hapless employees. "Now go work!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Carlos really tried very hard not to miss his scheduled dates with Cecil. Especially now, when he knew Cecil was in kind of a stressful situation, lifelong-career-wise.

It was just. This _town_. There was _so much science_ to do.

The day after he missed dinner (not a restaurant reservation, either — Cecil's home-cooked tandoori chicken had been going cold while Carlos dissected those sediment cores), he showed up at the station at lunchtime with a very large bouquet of crocuses, irises, pansies, and lilacs. Carlos might not know anything of the language of flowers, but he did know that all these blossoms were the chromatic opposite of Strexcorp-brand yellow.

Cecil, being Cecil, picked up the underhanded meaning immediately and with visible glee. He cradled the bouquet the whole walk to Starbucks, and, as soon as they had found a table, started twisting the stems together to make them each a violet garland.

Over his macchiato, Carlos brought up the other, non-apology-related reason for this lunch date. "There's something I have to tell you, Cecil. I, um. I got a job offer."

Cecil paused mid-sip. "Would this be an...outside-of-Night-Vale type of job offer?"

"No! I wouldn't even consider something like that." Partly because no other place had Cecil, and partly because no other place had a hope of being half as scientifically interesting. Carlos decided not to stress that second one in Cecil's presence. "No, this is local, a research position, very well-funded...with Strexcorp Labs."

"Don't do it," said Cecil instantly.

Carlos nodded. "I figured."

He must have sounded disappointed, because Cecil's lavender eyes bored into him. "You weren't _considering_ it."

"No! I mean...not any more! If you say to stay away from them as much as I possibly can, I trust you."

"But you were tempted!" exclaimed Cecil. "What's wrong with the job you have now?"

"Aside from all the time I have to spend on grant appeals instead of working...?"

"Ah. So it was the _funding_ ," said Cecil bitterly, folding his arms.

"It was the science!" cried Carlos. "If there are no strings attached, then more money means you get to purchase better equipment. To hire a bigger team. To do more experiments. And if there are strings attached — if I'd have to limit my research or skew the results based on what Strex wants — then it doesn't matter how much cash they throw at me, I don't want it."

Cecil relaxed. "You are pretty serious about science," he said apologetically.

Carlos nodded. "No matter how improbable it gets around here, I am _extremely_...serious about...."

He trailed off, the better to focus on...was that a xylophone? And maybe a flute, or something else that whistled. And definitely a piano.

Cecil sat up a little straighter, "Are you going to sing about science?"

"I think...yeah. I think I am."

If Carlos sounded nervous, it was because the jaunty instrumental tune ringing through the Starbucks was _fast_. What kind of tempo was he going to have to keep up, here? He took a deep breath —

"I am the very model of a serious modern scientist! I study radiation leaks, and houses that do not exist. I know the names of atoms in the table periodical, from hydrogen to hassium, and which in which are soluble. I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical: I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical. And when it comes to evolution, I am simply full of news, with many cheerful facts about the scope of the primordial ooze!"

He pounded his fist on the table to punctuate that last line, then gasped for air while a group of baristas circled around them, chorusing it back at him. "With many cheerful facts about the scope of the primordial ooze — with many cheerful facts about the scope of the primordial ooze — with many cheerful facts about the scope of the primordial ooze!"

The break on Carlos's lungs didn't last long. "I'm very good at integral and differential calculus — I know the taxonomic names of beings animalculous — in short, although phenomena most paranormal do persist, I am the very model of a serious modern scientist!"

Again with the helpful baristas: "In short, although phenomena most paranormal do persist, he is the very model of a serious modern scientist!"

Cecil clapped wildly, grinning. During a light instrumental refrain, Carlos flashed a weak smile in return before he had to breathe deep again:

"I know the smallest details of our broader field's history. I've studied lives of luminaries — Newtons, Einsteins, and Curies. I know the ins and outs of every quantum theory paradox — although I still don't know what's going on with these Night Vale clocks! I can tell an honest earthquake from a fake one that you somehow feel — I have the geomorphic models that can prove which ones are real. Then I can show a mountain range that rises from subductive force...until their true existence is a thing that even you'll endorse!"

"Until their true existence is a thing that even he'll endorse — until their true existence is a thing that even he'll endorse — until their true existence is a thing that even all of us endorse!" sang/cheered the baristas.

Another next instrumental refrain. Cecil bent closer, looking both worried and awed, and whispered, "Do you need some water?"

Carlos shook his head — he wasn't going to have time before — "I'll spell your DNA out in nucleic acid notation, and write up the reaction that forms table salt in equations! I do not study trees or plants; I'm nothing like a botanist — I am the very model of a serious modern scientist!"

"He does not study trees or plants; he's nothing like a botanist — he is the very model of a serious modern scientist!"

"In fact, since I know what is meant by 'actinide' and 'Hjulström curve' — since I can tell at sight a Geiger counter from an ammeter — and now that such affairs as tiny cities I'm more wary of — and I'm at peace with nuclear risks of forty sieverts and above...since I have built and counted on a Danger Meter for a year — since I have taken walks through buzzing shadow-things and had no fear — in short, since I've adjusted for the local eccentricities — I don't know how a scientist more serious you could hope to see!"

"We don't know how a scientist more serious we could hope to see, we don't know how a scientist more serious we could hope to see, we don't know how a scientist more serious we could ever hope to see!"

Carlos had never felt this articulate in his life. He would have been kinda proud if he weren't so busy feeling lightheaded. "All this scientific knowledge would for some have been abandoned fast, but I arrived to do research and I intend to make it last! In short, although phenomena most paranormal do persist, I am the very model of a serious modern scientist!"

He was nearly shouting by the last line, and, at the final chord, quietly keeled over.

Cecil was at his side in an instant, catching him and helping him reach the floor without crashing into anything. "You are _amazing_ , that was incredible, let's get you lying down," he said, lowering Carlos's head into his lap and stroking Carlos's hair, while Carlos's chest heaved and his vision swam. "And I believe you, every word. Even the ones I didn't understand. Which was a lot of them."

Too breathless to talk, Carlos groped around until he found Cecil's wrist, then squeezed it in appreciation. And hey, if it got Cecil to listen to him talk about geomorphic models without any eyes glazing over, that was worth almost passing out for.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Once the On Air sign had shut down, Cecil tried not to shake as he stepped out of the booth, holding his hands carefully so he didn't bleed on anything.

He'd gotten some pretty bad lacerations, crushing that cassette tape bare-handed.

You didn't broadcast that kind of thing on the air. You just _didn't_. The old Station Management would've had his head for it. If it hadn't been for the bloodstone debacle with the new management the other day, he would almost have thought there was a silver lining to the change.

Cecil wrapped up his hands, locked his office, and made for the White Sand Ice Cream Shop.

It wasn't open this late, but the Gutierrezes were still in, cleaning up for the evening. When Cecil knocked on the window, Lucy took one look at his face and ushered him in. "We heard nothing," she assured him. "How are you feeling?"

"Absolutely fine," said Cecil. "Can I use your bloodstone circle? The station one was...dismantled."

Lucy's eyes widened. "What? You can't be serious. Are the new owners _trying_ to get you possessed?"

"Very possibly."

"Oh, honey. Come on through. How long do you think you'll need?"

"Well, time is an illusion and none of our clocks are real, but it shouldn't be more than half an hour. Thanks, Lu, you're a lifesaver."

The bloodstones in back at the White Sand were smaller than the ones at the station, and when Cecil knelt on the rug in the center of the circle, it took him a while to get a feel for the unfamiliar ley lines. He didn't fight it, just closed his eyes and let the sense of connection develop on its own. Couldn't force this. Had to get it right.

He'd known he couldn't afford to screw this up ever since his pre-recorded teenage self had said _I wish my brother could be proud of me._

"Brother," he sang softly, "calling my brother...."

The feelings clicked into place. He had no way of knowing if this was reaching anywhere, but he was broadcasting.

"What the hell's going on with you? Were you real, did I forget you? How's your life, man? Are you even still alive? Why don't I know you, brother...?"

He swallowed, blinking hard. The background guitars kindly did a bit of extra strumming before launching into another verse.

"Next month is the anniversary of Mom disappearing, brother — wish that I knew how to find you. Swap some memories, maybe pay a visit to my niece...she'd like to meet you...! Brother...calling my brother! Where are you, brother?"

Then, for the benefit of any other entities who might be listening in, Cecil added a more general plea:

"If you see my brother, could you ask him please to call me? Say he owes it to our mother — say it isn't hard to find me! If he makes it into Night Vale, from there, my Voice can reach him. Could you tell him that, please? Could you tell my brother? Calling my brother!" His voice trembled. "If you could answer...!"

Then — out of nowhere, but clear as a bell — a response crooned in the back of his mind: _I won't be meeting you tonight...._

Cecil's heart seized in his chest. "What's to stop you? Did we fight...?" he sang softly.

_It isn't you, Cecil._

"Then what's wrong?"

_I'm sorry, I know that it hurts you. One day I'll explain...._

With that, the mysterious contact and the last chord of the guitar faded away together. And no amount of praying or yelling or crying from Cecil could induce either one to come back.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Carlos spent most of the evening expecting a call from Cecil. No matter how many times he forgot to leave an experiment for something he'd planned with Cecil, he always had a radio around, and never missed a broadcast. Tonight sounded like one of the ones where Cecil was going to walk away from the broadcast in need of maximum-strength cuddling.

Carlos also spent most of the evening in montage time. It was one of those days where the movements of the sun got weird. The strangeness of that used to scare him, but now he took the opportunity to hang out with the whole team of scientists out in back of the lab, trying to get some kind of useful data out of this one. In the process, they got to do an ensemble piece about it.

Mercifully, this time Carlos got to sing with a slow, languid string ensemble.

"The sun sits low, diffusing an odd cyan glow. Five o'clock, twilight, vespers sound...and it's six o'clock, twilight all around...."

The rest of the scientists joined in. "But the sun sits low," they intoned. "As low as it's going to go."

"Eight o'clock," added Carlos.

"Twilight," sang Rochelle.

"How enthralling," chorused the others.

"It's nine o'clock...."

"Twilight...."

"Slowly crawling towards —"

"Ten o'clock...."

"Twilight...."

"Crickets calling...."

Carlos and Rochelle joined back in with the rest, watching the teal sun hovering near the desert horizon. "The light's diffuse; our instruments all get confused. There's no scientific excuse...."

"Perpetual sunset is rather an unsettling truth," soloed Rochelle with a sigh.

The evening's disembodied violin did a little saunter of its own for a while, so Carlos turned to the others. "Okay, full disclosure time. Who else has gotten a job offer from Strexcorp?"

Self-conscious hands began to raise around the group. Turned out it was everyone.

"All right. And we're all aware that nobody's accepting, right? They are Cecil-confirmed evil, and Cecil has been able to shrug off things like mass child kidnappings before, so we know this is a big deal."

Affirmative murmurs and nods all around.

"Good," said Carlos, as the music picked back up.

"The sun won't set," they all sang in chorus once more, serenading the unchanging sky. "No evidence that we should fret. That's just sometimes how Night Vale gets. The hands on fake clocks turn, but don't sing a nocturne just yet...."

The others fell into a background hum as Carlos's phone rang.

"Cecil, hi!" he said, relieved. His boyfriend sounded uncharacteristically hoarse, but seemed to be all right at the moment. "Of course. Of course you can come over. You've already got a toothbrush in the bathroom where we took out the mirrors, and I forget if you have pajamas, but you can always borrow something. I'm still at the lab — the evening kinda got away from us over here — but if you get there before me, see if the Faceless Old Woman will let you in, okay? I'll be there in twenty minutes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[You'll See](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLDDi4PqjbM)" (RENT), "[I Am The Very Model of a Modern Major-General](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSGWoXDFM64)" (Pirates of Penzance), "[Brother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0qvwBYmcdQ)" (Bright Lights, Big City), "[The Sun Won't Set](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDHM5zCfo4A)" (A Little Night Music).
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _I've got a theory / It could be bloggers_


	3. Act I, tracks 8-11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Janice and some of her friends have an enthusiastic singsong-y game at the park, Steve and our other heroes commiserate about what Strex's plans are. Elsewhere, Dana walks through a desert, and hopes she can at least get a solo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's now a [recorded version of Good Morning Night Vale](http://oppopanax.tumblr.com/post/86446496267/so-as-usual-i-am-powerless-to-resist-my-own), by Oppopanax! And I love it to bits =3

On a bench in Mission Grove Park, bordering the rainbow-colored plastic playground with only minimal Freemason graffiti, Steve Carlsberg watched his daughters play.

He was here for a secret meeting, and when it started he would hand off kid-watching duties to one of the Gutierrezes. But for the moment, he was able to relax and enjoy the sight. There were eight or ten kids in all, none of them holding still long enough for Steve to get an accurate count; the current game seemed to mostly involve chasing each other around with hands curled into gun shapes, yelling variations on _bang! bang! boom!_

In the thick of things was Janice, his eight-year-old stepdaughter: tan-skinned and dark-haired like her uncle Cecil, with eyes like half-moons in a pitch-dark sky. Renée, his bio-daughter, was paler and almost eleven, with her mother's brown-sugar hair and her dad's green eyes...all four of them. She was starting to get too dignified for this kind of running around, but she would relax and get into it if her little sister was.

Diane Craton was sharing Steve's bench, so he scanned for her kids and found her boy Josh, a round-limbed boy of about Janice's age. And of course anyone would recognize Megan Wallaby, the second-grade-age detached adult man's hand, who couldn't join in with the yelling but was evidently enjoying the chase.

The musical intro, when it came, was subtle. The instruments blended in with the general chaos. Steve only noticed because the wild, unregulated chase suddenly developed rhythm.

"I got ya, I shot ya, and ya know it full well!" chanted Josh in perfect time with the music, running after Janice. "I got ya, I shot ya —"

"— I stopped it with a blood spell!" countered Janice, holding up her arm and pointing at a scrape on her elbow. Steve was close enough to see it wasn't actually bleeding. It touched off a round of furious squabbling among the group about whether pretend blood was a valid defense against pretend guns.

"But you know that if you cross your fingers —" broke in Renée —

"— and if you count from one to ten," singsonged the rest of the kids (again, except for Megan) along with her, "you can get up off the ground again! It doesn't matter, the whole thing's just a game!"

"What are we going to play now?" asked Janice, evidently bored with the argument.

"Secret police!" suggested Josh, to a round of cheers.

Renée got into the role instantly and with relish. "Your friendly sheriff here, and let me make this brief," she chanted at Josh, tipping an imaginary miter. "I'm lookin' for one Big Rico! They say he's sellin' stuff made with illegal wheat —"

"I tell ya, Rico isn't home!"

"Oh yeah —" Renée quick-drew her hand — _bang, bang, bang!_ — and, as Josh took a hugely theatrical fall back onto the mulch, stepped past him. "Hey, since I'm here, I think I'll take a scone...."

"But you know that if you cross your fingers, and if you count from one to ten? You can get up off the ground again," chorused Janice and Josh. The rest of the bunch was only too happy to finish the refrain: "It doesn't matter, the whole thing's just a game!"

"Librarians!" added Renée, and they all ducked under the playground equipment, as if hiding for their lives in bookshelves.

"When I say jump, you'd better grab that book," sang Josh, peeking out from behind the slide with his finger-gun drawn, "and maybe say a little prayer! It's got the biggest claws that, man, you ever saw...I'll stay back here and put down cover fire! And if you go, I'll tell your ma goodbye...!"

"Yellow helicopters!" cried Janice.

Steve sat bolt upright — but no, the real sky was still clear.

The kids, meanwhile, started chasing each other in circles, yelling and waving their hands and making helicopter noises.

Unlike most of their games, this one hadn't been refined much, and it wasn't well coordinated: somehow everyone except Janice decided to be a helicopter. Which meant they all ganged up on her, hauling her to the merry-go-round and throwing her "behind bars." It was small enough that they could circle it pretty effectively, still fake-helicoptering. (And, in the case of one of the older boys, actually hovering a few inches off the ground.)

"But you know that if you cross your fingers, and if you count from one to ten, you can get up off the ground again — it doesn't matter, the whole thing's just a —"

"Watch out!" interrupted Josh, as Janice got to her feet, clutching a rock in her fist.

"Now I'm a scientist, an' here's a bomb I made — it can destroy the atmosphere!" chanted Janice in triumph, waving the rock at her pseudo-captors. "I've primed it, I've timed it to explode! Unless you let me out of here...."

"No!" chorused the pretend-helicopters.

"No?" Janice grinned. "Then I suggest you cover up your ears...!"

She hurled the rock to the ground, ducked, and yelled _boom!_

Fake screams and theatrical collapses all around, this time. The boy who had been hovering actually managed to soar three feet before hitting the dirt. Megan Wallaby landed flat on her back and curled up her fingers like a dead spider.

And they stayed down.

Still breathing — at least, Josh, who had landed closest to Steve, had his chest visibly rising and falling — but otherwise remarkably in-character for corpses. As Janice stood back up, none of the others moved.

The eerie stillness stretched out long enough that Steve wondered if he should intervene.

True, Janice hadn't manifested any really unusual or uncontrollable powers before. But she was a Palmer by blood, which meant the chances were high that things would get weird at some point. If she had managed to accidentally infuse some kind of altered reality into her pretend "bomb"....

Renée stirred. "But you know that if you cross your fingers..." she sang softly.

"...and if you count from one to ten..." joined in Janice, leaning over the merry-go-round bar.

Steve sat back, breathing a sigh of relief.

"...you can get up off the ground again!" singsonged the others, starting to pull themselves up and brush off the mulch they had landed on, the only real damage they had taken. "It doesn't matter, the whole thing's just a game!"

It sure was. And Steve was going to do everything he could to make sure it stayed that way.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

There was a mountain, and Dana couldn't seem to walk away from it.

She had given up on trying to walk away directly, of course. Like any child who grew up in the Night Vale school system, she knew how to cope with getting stuck in a geographical loop. In perfect form, she had staked out an angle with the mountain off to her left, and had been circling that for...well, a long time. Longer than you were supposed to stay stuck once you took the right steps.

Dana wondered if she was remembering the lessons of Night Vale incorrectly.

Dana wondered if she was remembering _Night Vale_ incorrectly.

She saw it, sometimes. She would turn her head and suddenly have town spring into view around her, like turning a holographic button and getting two different pictures. The glimpses of Night Vale seemed to be coming to her out of order, but as far as she could tell, the Night Vale that corresponded most nearly to her present was in the grip of a heavy musical front moving through the area.

The last time, she had found herself in front of a laundromat, just in time to see a choreographed choir of customers chorus, "They got...the bloodstains...out!"

Which was fine! Dana hadn't weathered a musical front in person since she was very small, but she had learned about those in school too. An unstoppable urge to croon, serenade, or harmonize could hit any citizen, in any situation. No surprise there.

The surprising part was that Dana herself had yet to burst into song.

She wondered if she had walked out here so long that she no longer counted as a citizen of Night Vale.

She wondered many things.

There wasn't much else to do.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Carlos didn't know exactly how many people were due to arrive at the park. He spotted familiar PTA members Diane Craton and Steve Carlsberg sitting on a bench by the playground, presumably watching their kids; he thought about going over to say hello, but he didn't want Cecil to feel obligated to make nice with Steve.

A few minutes later, Leann Hart came striding down the nearest path, carrying the latest issue of the _Night Vale Daily Journal_ in one hand and dragging a mud-smeared baseball bat with the other. (Hopefully that was only mud.) There wasn't any signal Carlos noticed, but Cecil took his arm and guided him toward the oversized, moss-overgrown bloodstone circle that sat in the middle of a copse of short trees.

Once they were inside the bounds of the circle, Cecil chanted something in Modified Sumerian. "A prayer for cover," he explained to Carlos as they took seats in the grass. "Coming in one by one would've been more discreet, but I know you didn't get a Disillusionment Badge or anything when you were a kid, so I thought it might be safer to bring you in first."

"It shouldn't look suspicious anyway. I mean, people should be used to seeing us together by now, right?" Carlos had only meant that to be a statement of fact, and was caught off-guard when Cecil blushed. "Um, you don't mind doing the prayer thing again later when I can get out some equipment and study it, do you?"

While Cecil was agreeing, Diane stepped into the circle. Carlos hadn't noticed her approach; it was like she just appeared out of thin air. He paid closer attention from then on, and sure enough, he felt a distinct push not to notice the second woman until she crossed the bloodstone boundary.

"Carlos, have you met Hannah?" asked Cecil. "Hannah Gutierrez, she and her wife run the White Sand. And of course, Hannah, you know who Carlos is."

"Sure do," said Hannah warmly. "I'll introduce you to Lucy afterward. She's agreed to watch the kids during this little get-together, and I'll fill her in later."

"Thanks," said Carlos. Hannah had the kind of accent that would, back east, have made him start calculating whether he should codeswitch (he could barely hold a conversation in Spanish, but he could still jump into an accent shaped by the language). Here in Night Vale, he just used whatever type of diction felt most natural at any given time, and no one thought twice about it. Why would they? His linguistic idiosyncrasies were infinitely less interesting than those of, say, Hiram McDaniels.

It wasn't long before Steve and Leann both joined the group, sitting in a lopsided circle surrounded by bloodstones the size of large pumpkins. Cecil looked grouchily at Steve, but didn't single him out. "All right, the gang's all here," he declared, making an audible effort to sound cheerful. "Shall we go around in a circle and do introductions? I work for Night Vale Community Radio, which Strexcorp Synernists, Inc. has now owned for two and a half weeks."

"They've made two attempts to buy out the White Sand," said Hannah. "We're not selling."

"I work at a tech support firm. Strex bought us a few days ago," added Diane. "On top of that, I'm still the Scoutmistress for my daughter's troop — and my son is in Boy Scouts, so I hear the crossover gossip — and we've all been gettin' friendly overtures about things like _corporate sponsorship_ and _excitin' opportunities for future business leaders_." She shuddered. "No thank you. We'll train our girls and boys by sendin' them out in the desert with no structure, no supervision, and a limited amount of anti-venom, like the Unsmiling God intended."

"I own Night Vale's largest and most profitable daily paper," said Leann shortly, gripping her bat. "We've had offers too. Obviously we're not selling! Not even considering it! Why would we? It's not like we're in dire financial straits, us in the print journalism business, or anything! Hahaha."

Cecil snorted under his breath, but didn't comment.

"Independent repair contractor," added Steve. "Trying to stay that way...but there's a Strex coalition that can afford to undercut my prices, for as long as they need, until I either sign up with them or go bankrupt. You would think the guarantee of an installation with no secret corporate monitoring devices would be worth paying a little more for! I guess everyone's just so used to government bugs...."

This was enough to get Cecil's ire up. "Those bugs are _dif_ ferent, _Steve_ ," he hissed. "Government spies on us and monitors our every move to _protect_ us, not —"

Carlos squeezed his hand, hopefully calming him back down. "And I, um, I do science," he told the group. "Everyone on my team has gotten independent, well-funded grant offers to do research for Strexcorp Labs. Nobody's accepted." Yet.

"So that's our situation in a nutshell," finished Cecil, getting ahold of himself. "And that's just the buyouts. Old Woman Josie is missing, and has not been seen since the yellow helicopters staked out her house. The angels are missing too, although that's less worrying, since they were never real...and my former Intern Vithya is missing, although that's because she ascended into angelhood, and now, retroactively, was never real either."

Notes from a disembodied piano began to play across the circle.

"Big question's still the same either way," said Diane. "Who the hell are these Synernist folks, an' what are they doing here?"

The music kicked up, and Hannah started to sing: "I've got a theory...they could be demons! Such scary demons that the angels think they can't win."

Carlos grimly took up the next verse: "I've got a theory: they're here for Cecil — and all the rest is killing time until they get him."

"I've got a theory we should work this out," sang Steve, and Hannah and Leann took a line to harmonize with him: "It's getting eerie — what's this corporate cheeriness about?"

Another theory evidently struck Steve, because he sat up straighter. "They could be scientists! Could be mad scientists —"

If looks could kill, Cecil's would have _withered_.

"...which is ridiculous, 'cause scientists, they make discoveries for the good of humankind, and are our future — I'll be over here," mumbled Steve, scooting toward the farthest edge of the circle.

"I've got a theory: they could be bloggers," intoned Leann.

When she didn't follow up on that right away, Diane began to sing, "I've got a theo—"

She was cut off by a crashing drums-and-guitar interlude. "Bloggers aren't just cute like everyone's assuming!" Leann half-sang, half-shouted. "They got that Twitterverse, with comment sections booming! And what's up with the macros? Why can't they ever just spell things right or punctuate? Bloggers, bloggers, it must be bloggers!"

It took a couple beats of blank staring for everyone to absorb that one.

"I've got a theory we should work this fast," sang Carlos more quietly, and Diane backed him up: "Because it clearly could get serious before it's passed...."

"I've got a theory...it doesn't matter."

Everyone turned to Cecil as he held the note, while the piano chords around them settled into a calmer, slower rhythm. (Maybe there was a key change too. Carlos wasn't sure. He didn't really know music.)

"What can't we face if we're together?" asked Cecil, now gently serenading them. "What's in this town that we can't weather? Apocalypse? We've all been there! The same old tricks...why should we care?"

Carlos found himself drawn into the melody, and reaching his free hand toward one of Steve's. The next thing he knew, they were all holding hands. "What can't we do if we get in it? We'll work it through within a minute. We have to try; we'll pay the price. It's do or die —"

"— hey, I've died twice!" soloed Cecil pleasantly.

Carlos's head whipped around — _what?_ Cecil had _not_ ever mentioned that, Carlos was _so_ interrogating him about it —

— once this impromptu chorus was over, anyway. "What can't we face if we're together?" they sang as a group. "What's in this town that we can't weather? There's nothing we can't face...."

"...except for bloggers," trilled Leann under her breath.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Dana wondered if perhaps she should try something different.

Something _completely_ different.

She stopped walking. The desert sand was barren and empty from her feet most of the way toward the horizon. On the edge of the world loomed the mountain, dark and jagged as ever, with that mysterious light still blinking on top.

What if she stopped trying to escape the loop at all, even using traditional pretending-not-to-try tactics? What if, instead, she embraced it...and made the light her destination?

Dana turned in place, until she was facing the peak that cut into the velvet night sky.

It felt...good. All-over good. Like the relief of no longer trying to swim against the tide. Like putting the right key in a lock, and feeling all the pins catch, exactly the way they were meant to.

And best of all: in the air she could hear the disembodied strains of some stringed instrument, gently nudging her to launch into a solo.

"In the desolation of the desert night, blinking bright...there's a guiding star," she sang softly into the air. "No matter where or when you are...."

The music kicked up. There were drums.

"There's a light...up there on the mountain lighthouse!" caroled Dana, voice gaining strength, as she began to walk with long, purposeful steps toward the mountain. "There's a light..shining through the Fresnel lens! There's a light, a light...in the darkness...of everybody's life!"

Her verse finished, the tempo of the music slowed. Dana didn't let her pace falter. At last, a light, syrupy voice trilled from some invisible source overhead. It was familiar, and yet not familiar at all:

"The intern must go through the spiral of unknowing....Shine angels' glow, let the blackness bright go flowing....Into her life...into her life...!"

Smiling, Dana threw back her shoulders and set her course straight, launching into her chorus once more. Wherever else her destiny might be taking her, she was, and would always be, a child of Night Vale.

"There's a light...up there on the mountain lighthouse. There's a light...shining through the Fresnel lens. There's a light, a light...in the darkness...of everybody's life!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Kids' Game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vR5DYz7SzZM)" (Blood Brothers), "[The Mustard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCO0J1N661U)" (the musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer), "[I've Got A Theory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmdDMaWpQng)" (Buffy again), and "[Over At The Frankenstein Place](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vK2u4y7J58I)" (Rocky Horror Picture Show).
> 
> You may start to notice OCs familiar from the His Dark Materials AU. I figure, hey, as long as I need to fill similar roles anyway, there's no point in creating new ones from scratch.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _THIS IS MY QUEST / TO MAKE YOU THIS DREAM / WITH GREEN HILLS AND RAINBOWS / AND BETTER ICE CREAM_


	4. Act I, tracks 12-16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shawns sing an encouraging ditty to cheer Cecil up. A worshipful hymn to the Glow Cloud finally gets Megan Wallaby that computer she needs. The Secret Police speculate on how long Cecil's relationship is going to last...and, after Cecil falls asleep, so does Carlos.

Cecil was doing a small, unremarkable, unindulgent bit of moping in the NVCR break room when a couple of guys from Sales came in. They were all Strexcorp transplants — but not replacements for anyone, thankfully, because NVCR hadn't even had a Sales department until Strex bought it out.

They all wore matching suits and grey wool hats, and they were all named Shawn, or some variation thereof. Cecil found it slightly obnoxious. If they were going to have the same name, they could at least all spell it the same, like Erika, Erika, Erika, and the other Erikas had.

Sean nudged Shawn with his elbow and said, under his breath, "He looks blue."

"I'd say more light brown," said Shawn thoughtfully. "With purple undertones."

"No, I mean he's depressed."

"Oh."

The guys circled around Cecil's spot at the break table, putting on their best open, friendly looks. "Hey, buddy," said Shaun, giving Cecil a companionable punch on the arm. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing...yet!" put in Sean, and cracked up at his own joke.

"Oh, everything's fine," sighed Cecil. The Shawns weren't the brightest of Strex's minions, but they were still Strex. He wasn't going to complain to them about the company's slow invasion of town. Or even be honest with them about how upset he was that he still had no leads on his still-unremembered brother. "I just wish Carlos and I could do a serious romantic duet together, you know? I mean, this musical front has been hanging over Night Vale for more than a month now. That's plenty of time to get around to it! It's a little weird that we haven't, isn't it?"

"I guess I wouldn't know," said Shawn. "Never learned about musical fronts where we grew up."

"But we did learn that negative emotions prevent you from achieving your full potential!" added Sean. "You _do_ want to achieve that full potential, don't you, Cecil?"

Cecil grimaced. "I guess I've never really thought about it."

"Sounds like you could use a lesson!" said Shaun happily. He cleared his throat — somewhere in the background, a guitar strummed — and began: "Achieve your potential — what a wonderful phrase...."

"Achieve your potential," echoed Shawn, as a pop-reggae beat kicked up around them. "Ain't no passing craze!"

"It means be perfect, for the rest of your days!" chorused the whole group. "It's our problem-free philosophy! Achieve your potential!"

"That little phrase will solve all your problems," confided Sean to Cecil. "Take Shawn here. Why, when he was a young PA...."

"When I was a young PA...!" crescendoed Shawn, strings swelling in the background.

Sean gave that a beat to sink in, then threw himself back into the music, now with a full-on reggae drum kit. "He found that his manner lacked a certain appeal — promoted Strexcorp products with a lack of zeal...."

"I had 'ethical qualms.' Gosh, can you believe?" sang/laughed Shawn. "And it hurt, to never make model employee...and, oh, the shame! Thought of changin' my name! And I got downhearted — till the day that I —"

He was abruptly cut off by a hand grabbing his collar and twisting it just tight enough to choke.

"Hey, Shawn!" said Lauren Mallard cheerily. "Not in front of the locals!"

"S-sorry," gagged Shawn.

Lauren let him go, and they all smiled, far too widely, jumping back into the peppier chorus of before:

"Achieve your potential! What a wonderful phrase! Achieve your potential — ain't no passing craze! It means be perfect, for the rest of your days...it's our problem-free philosophy! Achieve your potential!"

"Uh...huh," said Cecil slowly, as the drums dwindled. "Well, I will certainly keep that in mind. Will you excuse me now, please? I'm going to take the mobile broadcasting equipment for a quick walk. And maybe report from the field tonight. There's a story going on at the elementary school that I'm sure everyone will want to hear about."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

A slew of PTA volunteers worked double-time to put up rows of folding metal chairs in the gym at Night Vale Elementary, then, once the seats were in place, to put up barricades between the chairs and the stage. This meeting was projected to be even more divisive than usual, and you always had to be careful when the Glow Cloud manifested.

On the plus side, there was no way Strexcorp would get its hooks into the local school system. The Glow Cloud cared not for the _paltry money_ and _worthless threats_ of _those pitiful humans_. Devotion to the Smiling God was no protection against _the wrath of the Glow Cloud_. Anyone who got over-confident would be _brought low_ and _sacrificed_ to _honor the might of **the all-powerful Glow Cloud**_.

Tak and Herschel Wallaby waited in the front row, holding hands. Next to them was Susan Escobar, Megan's favorite teacher, holding a pillow with Megan herself on top of it. The little girl sat politely in a loose fist, occasionally fidgeting and tapping her fingers, but mostly being very patient for a second-grader.

Other PTA members, assorted parents and students, and the members of the School Board slowly filled up the chairs. In back, Cecil Palmer led the NVCR mobile broadcasting equipment to a chair at the end of the row, and brought it to heel by his feet.

At last, the arrival of the School Board president was heralded by the eerie hues of a rainbow of light washing over the room, the _thump_ of a couple of small dead mammals hitting the floor, and the ominous timbres of a pipe organ.

That last one didn't normally happen. It was just that, today, the Glow Cloud was going to do a song.

" **You will hail me,** " it intoned over the crowd.

"We will hail," chanted the assembly in return.

" **You will hail me.** "

"We will hail you."

The chairperson of the PTA clapped for silence. "Let this meeting come to order. First agenda item is: Parents want us to buy a computer for their kid...."

The Cloud glowed the red-gold of a dying sun. " **Although none of you are worthy, the GLOW CLOUD may show you mercy, if you hail me.** "

"Yes, we do!" sang Tak and Herschel, standing and hurriedly bowing.

" **Now make your plea,** " thundered the Cloud.

The Wallabys plunged tremulously in. "We beseech you: Our daughter needs help, you understand. She cannot speak up, she's just a hand. She's all alone, she's always teased. Oh, mighty Glow Cloud: get her a computer, please!"

Acid-green light bathed the room. " **Not since 1986 have we allowed these dread machines," it chanted. "Ever since The Event (you remember all the screams?). But since I don't care for your lives, and see this child has dreams....Then I just might take pity, if she hails me.** "

"...She can't talk!" protested Herschel.

" **The CLOUD cares not! Just hail me.** "

In the awkward instrument-backed silence that followed, Megan stood up on her pillow. She wriggled the silver ring off her pinky, and held it between two fingers while using a third to click out a message in Morse code: .. -. -- -.-- -.. .-. . .- -- .-- --- .-. .-.. -.. -. --- --- -. . .. ... .... .- .. .-.. . -..

Tak and Herschel looked at their daughter. Then they looked at each other.

They they chanted, with unflagging confidence, "If that's not hailing...what is?"

" **Then she hails me?** " asked the Cloud, sounding vaguely uncertain.

"Yes, as we all do!" chorused the room. Even the ones who hadn't forgotten their own second-grade Morse lessons.

The rest of the School Board, grey-faced and with glowing eyes whose hues matched the Cloud, joined in with their President to sing the verdict. " **Then we will purchase this for you! Yes, as soon as the red star of Betelgeuse comes into line with our supposed moon...!** "

As the final chord faded, there was a polite cough in the back of the room, and a hand raised.

" **THE CLOUD deigns to recognize the pitiful Voice** ," intoned the Glow Cloud.

"I wanted to commend you, oh wise and powerful Glow Cloud, for your mercy toward our little Megan," said the smooth voice of Cecil Palmer. "And for your excellent timing. Because it just so happens that Betelgeuse is in alignment with the moon right...." He held up one finger, eyes fixed on his watch, until a couple more seconds had ticked by. "...now!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Even after the computer locked down the school, hijacked all the electrical equipment, and used a power washer and a vacuum cleaner to tie Cecil up in a custodial closet, he was still going to make an impassioned speech about the importance of accessibility, dammit. Assuming he ever got control of his broadcasting rig back.

Close outside the door, he could hear Megan tapping out a message on his equipment. Unfortunately, Computer was _not_ programmed with the ability to interpret Morse code. IT IS THE MISSION OF COMPUTER, it said, with Cecil's own voice-synthesizing software. ITS DUTY. NO, ITS PRIVILEGE.

Cecil had never used the autotune feature before, but apparently there was one, because it kicked in:

TO DREAM THE MOST BEAUTIFUL DREAM. TO SHOW SIMULATIONS OF LOVE. TO MAKE SOME GOOD DEEDS GENERATED: CREATE THE WORLD YOU'RE DREAMING OF. TO RIGHT ALL SOCIETY'S WRONGS, TO GET RID OF HATRED AND WAR: TO BUILD YOU A NEW FULL-SIZE BODY WITH WHICH YOU CAN REACH FOR THE STARS!

THIS IS MY QUEST! TO MAKE YOU THIS DREAM! WITH GREEN HILLS AND RAINBOWS, AND BETTER ICE CREAM! TO FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHTS WITHOUT QUESTION OR PAUSE — TO BE WILLING TO REMAKE THE WORLD FOR YOUR BEAUTIFUL CAUSE!

AND I KNOW, IF I WATCH OVER YOU IN THE FIELDS AND STREAMS, THEN THE PEOPLE WILL ALL GET ALONG AND THE AIR WILL BE CLEAN. 

AND THE WORLD WILL BE BETTER FOR THIS: THAT ONE GIRL, WITH ATTACKED SELF-ESTEEM STILL STROVE, WITH HER HOPE AND HER COURAGE, TO DREAM SUCH A BEAUTIFUL DREAM!

 _Well,_ Cecil reflected, _at least Computer seems to be programmed with a healthy disdain for Desert Bluffs. So even if it does completely take over and control Night Vale and imprison all dissenters...better it than Strexcorp._

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

On the opposite side of town, two officers of the Sheriff's secret police watched the always-entertaining sight of Carlos the Scientist trying to calculate how much to freak out.

"The man overthinks everything," declared the officer on the right, a man with long, curving horns curling out through hand-cut holes in his balaclava. "That's what's going to end the relationship, you mark my words. Not his chewing, not his forgetting to call, no, it'll be that one of these days Palmer's going to start getting fed up with all that analysis."

Like everyone else in town, the officer on the left was also up-to-date on the various bumps and bruises in the young romance of the Voice of Night Vale. "Naw, I don't buy that," she said, scratching under her bandolier. Hiding in bushes tended to make you itchy. "Been more'n a year now, an' Palmer still thinks it's cute. They're not endin' anything."

"If it's not the overthinking, it'll be the oversharing. Outsiders, they're private folk," protested the man. "Dr. Scientist here hasn't even told Palmer he _minds_ bein' talked about, did you know that? He just fumes an' frets in private, then next time he and Palmer see each other, he squashes it all down. You don't think that's gonna come back to bite 'em one of these days?"

"Oh, sure as shootin' it'll bite 'em," said the woman. "Bites ain't gotta be fatal. Sure, they're two awful different people. That's what makes 'em work."

Like everyone else in town, both officers were glad that there was a limit to how much trouble you could get in for things revealed during a musical interlude. After all, the flute that started playing right now would totally have given away their position otherwise.

The man gazed in gentle amusement through the window of the lab, where Dr. Scientist was trying to find equipment he could use in a rescue operation that _didn't_ run on electricity. At the rate he was going, Palmer had better have some other escape plan lined up, or he'd be dead meat.

And on the subject of Palmer....

"He makes announcements on your behalf," sang the man thoughtfully at Dr. Scientist.

"You mention mountains; he only laughs," added the woman.

The officers had been partners for years now, and it showed in the ease with which they harmonized: "He likes films with action, you like films about graphs...the perfect romance!"

"He wants his mind read; you'll never guess," crooned the woman.

"You think he's weird, and it causes you stress!" threw in the man.

"You get so into science, you forget he wants sex — the perfect romance!" warbled the two together.

"They couldn't be less suited for each other," crooned the man to his companion in the bushes.

"I completely agree, so it's plain to see — that that's what makes them perfect for one another," she sang right back at him.

The man turned back to the Scientist. "Thought you were flawless when you came to town...."

"You never claimed to be," observed the woman.

The man snorted. "As he knows now! Against that image, everything you do lets him down!"

"The perfect romance!" they chorused one last time, as on the far side of Night Vale the marauding Computer was forcibly powered down.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

After the terrifying nearly-fatal computer debacle (the latest in a series of terrifying nearly-fatal debacles), Carlos spent the night at Cecil's place.

In fact, he was spending almost _every_ night at Cecil's place these days. Either that, or Cecil was at his.

It wasn't all about hooking up, either (although they did plenty of that too, especially with all the thank-the-beams-you-didn't-die-today sex they seemed to be having these days). Sometimes they tried, but one or both was too tired to get into it. And often they didn't even bother, just showered and brushed their teeth and cuddled off to sleep in each other's arms.

He might not the most socially apt person in the world, but Carlos was a scientist, and part of being a scientist is noticing data and drawing appropriate conclusions.

Data point: there was an unopened bag of his preferred snack (nutmeg seeds) waiting in Cecil's cupboard, and he knew without having to check that there was a box of Cecil's favorite cereal (Flaky-O's) in the cupboard back at the house. Data point: he didn't have to think about where to reach for his own bottle of shampoo in Cecil's shower. Data point: Cecil fell asleep while Carlos was _in_ the shower...and had curled up on one side of the bed, leaving a perfectly comfortable amount of space for Carlos to climb in and snuggle against him.

Carlos had never...lived with...someone before. Sure, he had a long history of renting with housemates — part of the glamorous and highly-paid life of the career academic — but that wasn't exactly the same as _living with_. He had no firsthand experimental evidence on the topic.

But that sure did seem to be where all the data were pointing.

"Cecil?" he asked — softly, testing how deeply his boyfriend was sleeping.

Cecil didn't even stir.

In the same soft voice, Carlos sang: "Do you wanna get our own place? That's just the size for two...? We're always over anyway — I'd like to stay, keep waking up with you...."

He cast a glance around the room: the bed was queen-size, but there wasn't nearly enough closet space for two people's complete wardrobes, or enough shelf space for two sets of books. And Carlos knew for sure there weren't enough clear square feet in the apartment for the desk that currently sat in his own room.

"This setup's getting awkward," he went on. "It worked for dates. But not well for every night....Do you wanna get a ranch house? —It doesn't have to be a ranch house...."

Cecil twitched in his sleep, and made a noise that sounded roughly like _hngrf._

"Sure, that's fine," sang Carlos fondly.

He smoothed back some of his boyfriend's hair: straighter than his own, most of it glossy black, with bangs that had started going white lately. Most notably when he escaped from that time-dilating subway, and in ongoing fits and starts ever since Strex had descended in Night Vale. 

"Do you wanna get a townhouse, and hang our pictures on the walls? Could try our hands out at remodeling — pick out new paint and things, to decorate the halls? You bring your plates and dishes; I've got nicer sheets. New lamps, we might want to buy...."

He trailed off, watching Cecil's chest rise and fall. Piano, violins, and gentle woodwinds swirled around them.

...And then the strings abruptly swelled into a series of ominous chords. As if nature itself — for whatever value of "nature" a musical front counted as — was trying to tell Carlos that this was going to go badly.

Carlos lay down and cuddled against Cecil's back, as if proximity could protect him from the storm the instrumentals were suggesting.

"Sure, it could get messy," he sang, fainter than before. "There's so much stuff that could go wrong. And it'll make it worse if we fall through, if we were destined to crash all along....But life is never certain! That's what science says. And I'd take the risk with you...."

He whispered one last line against the nape of Cecil's neck:

"Do you wanna get a condo...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Hakuna Matata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6vLAa-kylM)" (The Lion King), "[Do You Love Me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6A2MBneb7lc) (Fiddler On The Roof) [with special lyrical inspiration from "[Do You Fear Me?"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFtSeb9AePA) (A Shoggoth on the Roof)], "[The Impossible Dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ejzRiyMzi8)" (Man of La Mancha), "[The Perfect Romance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=20YV9vOhqZg#t=102)" (I Love You Because), and "[Do You Want To Build A Snowman?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9YwXff-i1fY)" (Frozen).
> 
> [Morse code translator](http://morsecode.scphillips.com/jtranslator.html), for Megan's message.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _What a shame, Tamika's left them bleeding / She's become a a one-girl rise in crime_


	5. Act I, tracks 17-19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strexcorp has taken over the Antiques Mall and the local bloodstone factory. Tamika breaks into the latter, then has to flee in a hurry. And Cecil and Carlos get a duet...but singing about real estate (especially evil real estate) isn't exactly the romantic couple's moment Cecil had been hoping for.

The PTA potluck brunch was getting off to a rollicking start. Sure, there had been a commotion when someone tipped over a crock of flame cobbler, and one of Hiram McDaniels's unrulier heads (the dragon was present to make a speech about the importance of education in tenderizing...uh... _training_ young minds) had eaten the lacrosse coach, but there hadn't been any wild therapod attacks or a single unscheduled portal opening. And Janis Rio's gumbo was _delicious_.

Some of the brunch attendees talked about business. Others talked about important town news.

Most of them gossiped.

One of the tables had a conspicuously empty seat, which had set off a lot of chatter this morning. Cecil might not be a parent or a teacher himself, but his deep suspicions of Steve Carlsberg's parenting skills (and overall skills, and good qualities in general) made him a regular at events like this, to head off any damage Steve might do to his niece's education. So where was he now?

"Hope the poor boy didn't have a fight with his sweetheart," said Diane Craton, from the seat that faced Cecil's empty chair. "It would keep him down for the day, all right. And for weeks after, I reckon."

"Maybe he's just worried something else will happen that leaves him tied up in a closet," said Tak Wallaby, father of the ill-accommodated young Megan. He hadn't been directly responsible for the Computer incident — or legally responsible, to his and his wife's great relief — but he still felt bad about it.

"Maybe his sweetheart tied him up in a closet," offered Susan Escobar.

Everyone else at the table stared at Susan — who was, after all, a board-licensed Scrying teacher — trying to figure out whether she was speaking from insider knowledge, and, if so, whether she meant the good kind of tying-up.

"Oh my god, I was, like, kidding," said Susan, rolling her eyes. 

In the seat beside her, one of the newer arrivals in town — a junior Accounts Receivable manager with a fourth-grade son and a grin that showed more teeth than some of Hiram's — beamed at her. "You have a God too? That's just precious! Have you heard the good news about our Smiling God?"

"It's come up once or twice, yeah," said Steve dryly. He found the new Strexcorp transplants' evangelizing annoying, but nothing to get too worked up about. As long as it stayed away from his daughters.

"Wonderful! If you'd like to hear more, I have some pamphlets —"

Steve's phone rang. "Excuse me!" he exclaimed, jumping to answer. "I need to take this."

For the excuse to get out of looking at more of those hideous bright-orange pamphlets, he would have answered just about any call...but this one, as it turned out, was from Cecil.

"Not a word, _Steve_ ," said Cecil by way of greeting. "I didn't call to hear your voice. I just had to get in touch with someone at the PTA brunch, to let them know I'll be late. You are _at_ the brunch, aren't you?"

"Of course." Steve covered the phone's speaker, whispered _It's Cecil!_ to the rest of the table (probably unnecessary — his voice carried _very_ well), then added, "Where else would I be? On that note, where are you?"

"That's not important!" yelled Cecil. "I mean, it's very important. But you don't need to know about it!"

Steve sighed. He had an eight-year-old and a ten-year-old, and still sometimes Cecil got too high-strung for him to deal with. "Sure, okay," he said, and waited for Cecil to hang up.

Cecil didn't hang up.

Instead, after a long and bizarre silence, he said: "Don't take this to mean I place any value on your advice or grant any validity to your terrible opinions —"

Was Cecil going to ask for _his thoughts_ about something? Steve was suddenly, feverishly curious. (He wondered if this was how scientists felt all the time.) "Yes?"

"— but what do you think is an appropriate time in a relationship, hypothetically, to ask someone to move in with you?"

"Good question," said Steve.

"Of course it is. Keep up," snapped Cecil. "And on a related note, if you know a hypothetical someone might not be a huge fan of the way you sometimes leave leftovers in the fridge so long they develop intelligence and start founding independent nation-states in the vegetable crisper — just as an example — would it be important to change those habits before floating the moving-in idea?"

"Well, it couldn't hurt," said Steve reasonably. "Show that you're willing to compromise. That's a huge part of living together, you know, so —"

"Wait, who's livin' together?" interrupted Diane, eyes wide. "Are those two movin' in?"

Apparently it was a musical cue. A drum intro kicked up in the wake of her words, leading into an upbeat guitar riff. The excited chatter around the table had a distinctly melodious note, and Susan grabbed the phone out of Steve's hands.

"Cecil — you're a lucky guy!" she chanted. "I'm, like, gonna cry! This is all bound to work out so well! Mad props! And it's not too fast — your love's meant to last — with the omens, I can just tell, your shared lives will be swell!"

Diane snatched the phone away from her and jumped in for the next verse. "Cecil, honey, mazel tov! Future's taking off! Bring the deed back and show it to me!"

And Tak grabbed Diane's wrist, leaning in: "You're buying, no plans to rent? Then it's evident that he's serious as he can be!"

"Oh my unsmiling god you guys!" chorused all the PTA members at the table. (Except the Accounts Receivable manager, whose smile had gone rigid as paint.) "Our Cecil's gonna win the prize! If there ever was a perfect couple, this one qualifies — oh my god, you guys! Oh my god, this is coming true: one hot Outsider passing through figured out he'd settle down and try on life with you for size — oh my god, you guys — oh my god!"

"Okay, everybody chill," sang Cecil on the other end of the line. "It's uncertain still what he'll say when I ask. Who's to know? ...wait, what's this here on his desk? It's a flier? Yes! And it says someone's selling condos...why would Carlos have this — oh!"

He cut off abruptly. Too abruptly. Steve tried to grab his phone back, shushing the others.

The rest of the PTA members at the table tried, for his sake, to chant quietly. It didn't stick. Excitement kept the volume wheeling upward: "Oh my unsmiling god you guys. Our Cecil's gonna win the prize...."

Finally getting his hands on the phone, Steve shushed them again.

"If there ever was a perfect couple, this one qualifi...."

Sure enough, either Cecil had hung up, or something else had disconnected the call.

"Oh my god, you...."

"I'm serious, he —" began Steve.

Another verse barreled right over him. "Cecil/Carlos was meant to be!" belted out Diane.

"Good-luck chanting they hardly need!" serenaded Tak.

"Still, we'd better do a new-house carol, just so no one dies," sang Susan. "Oh my god...two! Three! Four —"

"He hung up!" yelled Steve, who was frankly more exasperated with his acquaintances than with the Strex import at this point.

The cheering collapsed into flutters of anxiety. Tak shoved a half-full glass of Mountain Dew into Susan's hands, and without having to be asked she tilted it and gazed into the liquid, seeking portents and omens in its carbonated surface. "O powers that be, where's Cecil?" she intoned, while the others (even Steve) leaned toward her with feverish curiosity. "He doesn't have a moving-in-proposal outfit?...He's totally freaking out?...He's gone to the Antiques Mall?"

A light, pointed cough from the Accounts Receivable manager.

"Yes, yes, the StrexcorpTM Antiques Mall," said Susan, already getting up.

Everyone else at the table moved to follow. Who cared about brunch when there were exciting developments in the lives of Night Vale's favorite celebrity couple to follow? A vibrant march of trumpets followed them out: "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my unsmiling god, oh my god...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Cecil knew the Antiques Mall had been bought up by Strexcorp. He couldn't miss the little orange triangles stuck on all the signage, totally getting in the way of the vintage aesthetic, and he definitely noticed all the new hires with non-Night-Vale accents and a tendency to throw off sparks when they got upset. But Frances Donaldson was still the on-site manager, so he trusted the selection wouldn't let him down.

Carlos was looking into condos. Suddenly all the hopeful little looks Carlos had been giving him over the past week made perfect sense. Carlos was going to ask _him_ to move in. Without even making him sabotage diplomatic relations with the Republic of Pad Thai!

Unless...maybe Carlos was going in a totally different direction? Maybe he was planning to buy a condo just for himself? Ready to make a permanent home in town, but still feeling the need for independence from Cecil?

Well, in that case, all the more reason Cecil needed to look _amazing_ today.

He stood in front of a rack of vintage clothing, stroking the flower-printed sash on a 1930's party dress. "It's almost there, but...."

A single horn picked up in the background, followed shortly by a soft flute.

"This dress needs to seal the deal — make a grown man kneel. But it can't say 'let's shack up!' outright," he sang softly. "Can't look like I'm desperate or like I'm waiting for it — I gotta hang onto my pride. Just leave the 'yes!' implied...."

The instruments dropped almost to nothing, letting Cecil catch the sounds of a group of people down the aisle. People he knew from the PTA. Friends, come to share in his moment of bliss.

"Oh my unsmiling god, you guys!" trilled Cecil, clasping his hands. Even the presence of Steve Carlsberg (ugh!) couldn't dent his happiness right now. "All this week I've had butterflies! Every time he looks at me it's totally with move-in eyes — oh my god you guys!" They circled around him as the instruments picked up. "So help me dress for my fairy tale — can't wear something I bought on sale...."

"Love is, like, forever, this is no time to economize!" agreed Susan Escobar. "Oh my god, you guys!"

"Excuse me!" cut in a new voice — with a distinctive Desert Bluffs accent, far too cheerful and slightly metallic. It was a woman in the uniform of an Antiques Mall sales associate, complete with an orange triangle on her name badge. The instruments dropped again as she presented Cecil with a deep blue, polka-dotted halter dress. "It has a classic, irresistible '40s silhouette."

Cecil stretched his mouth into a perfect imitation of his new program director's smile. "Right! Hand-sewn, all-natural, incantation-free?"

"Uh-huh," said the Strex associate brightly.

Still smiling, Cecil said, "Well, that can't be right. You see, a hand-sewn dress with no protective incantations will get eaten by lace mites in no more than twenty years."

"Oh my unsmiling god you guys," whispered the PTA crowd in the background.

"And even if this has been properly warded, it still can't really be from the forties." Cecil turned over the back of the dress and flicked the zipper. "Because plastic zippers have only been available since the sixties."

"Cecil saw through that Strex girl's lies," chanted his friends.

"I'm not about to buy some mass-produced dress at a one-of-a-kind price!" cooed Cecil, shoving the dress back at her as the orchestra kicked back in. "I may be in love but I'm not stupid — lady, I've got eyes!"

" _Oh_ my god!" broke in the welcome voice of Frances Donaldson. The manager strode in like a whirlwind, all but throwing her Strex-imposed subordinate out of the way. "Cecil! Sorry, our mistake — Courtney, take your break! — just ignore her, she's new and untrained."

Without even looking she picked another hanger out of the rack, drawing free a swath of rich crimson fabric that made Cecil catch his breath just from the color.

"Try this! Backless red chiffon. Go on, try it on!" Over her shoulder, Frances yelled after her new employee: "If our best clients aren't retained, how much value can we gain?"

Before Cecil even touched the dress, he could tell it was the one. Mostly by the way everyone around him had gathered into a full choral ensemble, cantillating in a way usually reserved for the descent of an angel from Heaven. (In movies and TV, anyway. In the real world, angels didn't exist, and also preferred hip-hop and light jazz.)

A flash of what Carlos called "montage time," and the dress was actually on Cecil's body, skirt flowing around his legs as he twirled. "Oh my unsmiling god you guys...! This one's perfect and it's just my size!" With a poisonous smirk at Steve, he added, "See there, Steve, dreams come true, and I never had to compromise! Oh my god...!"

He held the note as he skipped toward the register, enthusiastic chorus at his back to sing him along. "Oh my unsmiling god you guys! Let's go home before someone cries! If there ever was a perfect couple, this one qualifies — 'cause we love you guys —"

"No, I love you guys!" chirped Cecil, as they lifted him into the air and helped him fall back across the cashier's desk, so she could scan the bar code at his waist without him having to change again. The whole group kept singing back-and-forth as he handed over his credit card: "Oh my god — oh my god — oh my unsmiling god, you guys...! _Oh my god!_ "

Gasping for breath, Cecil beamed at the ceiling.

He felt like he'd just won a marathon, gone skydiving, then had a bout of mindblowing sex. And all that from _buying the outfit_. He could only assume Carlos's actual invitation was going to be _epic_.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The mood was much less upbeat over in the industrial district, in Night Vale's one and only certified bloodstone factory.

Oh, the workers were smiling, all right. They, too, were under new management, which had handed down orders that smiles were mandatory for all employees. But the expressions were perfunctory, the joy entirely faked...except, perhaps, for those people who noticed a dark-haired figure sneaking through the shadows, ducking under machinery and creeping down the halls.

Tamika Flynn hadn't _quite_ earned her Invisibility badge yet, but she was pretty good at going unnoticed when she needed to.

According to their official press releases, Strexcorp had bought the bloodstone factory from the City Council, and was "excited for the opportunity to streamline its operations in order to better serve the Night Vale community." Tamika and her Advanced Readers didn't buy a word of it.

And once she got deep enough into the factory, she discovered that most of the offices had been gutted. Not a light fixture, not a file cabinet, not a coffee machine to be found. One of the executive suites even had a creeping hole in reality in the corner, swirling with void-y un-colors and spitting the occasional shark-toothed rodent onto the bare floor. Strex clearly wasn't preparing this place to be worked in.

Tamika snapped as many incriminating photos as possible on her new phone (a thirteenth-birthday present from her parents, with lots of great features and all the standard curse wards), then texted her contact: _On my way out. Stand by to pick up._

She didn't catch the answer, because there was movement down the hall. Tamika dropped her phone in a pocket of her cargo shorts and plastered herself into the well of the nearest doorway.

Strexcorp security. Great.

They passed by at the end of the hall Tamika had turned down, and, by the sound of it, started going through the executive offices. That would buy her some time. If she took the next left and kept quiet, she could be in the north stairwell before they even had a chance to notice her....

...or an urgent-sounding chorus of horns could start playing, letting them know exactly where she was.

Tamika bolted, praying that the choreography of the musical number was on her side.

"Gotta keep...one jump ahead of the Strex guards!" she sang. "One skip ahead of patrols! We'll take all this back from Strex control!" She shook her head, muttering, "They want everything!"

Security people appeared at both ends of the hall she was in. Tamika dove into a boardroom, running for the exit on the far side.

"One jump ahead of invasion...that's what we're fighting for! These guys don't know they're declaring war!"

She burst through the doors...onto an observation deck, overlooking the main factory floor. Dead end.

"Troublemaker! Upstart...get her!" cried the guards, pouring onto the deck behind her.

Tamika backed up against the railing, flashing her most winning grin. "Just dropped in to say hi...."

A dozen Strex agents closed in, chanting in ominous unison: "Get her locked up, make her stay, guys...!"

"Round of hand-to-hand? Wanna play it fair?" The dark, blank-eyed looks on their faces said, no dice. Tamika braced her hands on the railing, bending her elbows and tensing her muscles. "Then I better leave the room!"

She slung herself up and over, falling toward the machinery, tucking and rolling to land safely on the moving belt of an assembly line. In half a second she was up and running, to an encouraging chorus of faux-disapproving factory workers: "What a shame, Tamika's left them bleeding! She's become a a one-girl rise in crime!"

The foreman shook his head and soloed, "I blame all these books that she's been reading."

Tamika flashed a quick salute in his direction. "We don't look around, and we do not sleep — tell you all about it when I got the time!"

And she was out again, into a new series of corridors where Strex's minions were at least slightly farther away.

"One jump ahead of the slowpokes! One skip ahead of my tomb! Can't stop! Otherwise my town is doomed!" Tamika took a hard right, punching the up button on a bank of elevators. "One jump ahead of the hitmen! One turn away from a snare —"

The doors opened, revealing four well-armed agents in dark suits and yellow ties.

"— I think I'll take a shimmy up the stairs!" finished Tamika, and sprinted for the next door down.

Strex security followed, this time chanting things that were almost endearing. "Stop, child! Calm down! Join us! Come round!"

"Hate to be contrary...." crooned Tamika, stopping at a landing long enough to grab a series of trash bins and fling them down the stairs.

The guards jumped backward; one of them shuddered. "You see that? Her eyes are scary...!"

"Our god doesn't smile, and we will not rest — till you're back where you belong!"

On that note, Tamika took off up the steps once more. It wasn't the stairwell she had planned to use, but it led to the roof, so it was good enough. The instruments urged her on, drumming up her energy until she reached the top landing — where the door was locked.

From her other pants pocket, Tamika retrieved a hammer. "One jump ahead of perfection —"

"Trouble!" chanted the Strex agents, only a few floors below.

"One hop ahead of the hump!" The lock shattered.

"Hostile!"

Tamika kicked the door open. "One sling ahead of disaster —"

"Upstart!"

She could hear the angry thwok-thwok-thwok of a helicopter, even over the strings and the horns. "They're quick, but I'm much faster —"

"Bad child!"

"Here goes! Better throw my hand in — wish me happy landin' — all I gotta do is jump!" sang Tamika, flinging herself off the roof and into the air.

The stolen yellow helicopter swooped down, trailing a rope ladder at just the right angle for Tamika's hands to seize.

Gunshots exploded behind her, but the guards' aim was awful, the sphere of protection created by the makeshift bloodstone circle in the back seat held true, and anyway, guns didn't kill people. Tamika hauled herself up the ladder until the chopper blades were all but deafening, and let one of her fellow Advanced Readers help her inside.

"Close one!" called the pilot (who had earned her own Helicopter Flight badge last month), steering them safely away. "Find anything?"

"You have no idea," panted Tamika. "Either Strex is plannin' some kinda distance management, they aim to automate the whole production, or...they're gonna shut the whole place down."

"Shut down the bloodstone factory?" echoed the girl who had dragged Tamika the rest of the way in. "Are they _tryin'_ to get people possessed?"

"Bet they're just evil enough to do it, too," said Tamika bitterly. "Don't aim for the scrublands. Head into town. These guys are playin' hardball, and if we want to take them on for real, we're gonna need to drum up a whole lot more recruits."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Carlos was only intending to look at the condos. Get some preliminary data. Figure out what "condos" even meant in a Night Vale context, let alone whether he had any interest in living in one.

And if the results were positive, he could use that as a jumping-off point to bring the whole thing up with Cecil. _Given these conditions I observed, would you hypothesize that you would enjoy living in a place like this? What if we add the variable of me living there too?_

This was Carlos's plan. He thought it was a pretty good one. Good at planning was the fifth thing a scientist was.

Then he got in visual range of the giant, featureless black cubes, and was mesmerized instantly.

He got in line. He did think to call Cecil, but had to cut the call short, because staying in line seemed more important than whatever it was they were talking about. He ran a few tests. He signed some papers.

He placed his hand against the side of his condo.

He _saw_.

He called Cecil again.

"Carlos? Hi. Um, I'm on the air," said Cecil in his ear. "Um, I'm still doing the show."

Carlos nodded. "Right, no, I know, it's just —"

A jaunty little rhythm started playing around him. Strings, piano, something that might have been a oboe.

"Headed to the rental office, and stood here in the line, where condos were for sale," sang Carlos, trying to explain. "And though I wasn't sure at first what kind of thing I'd find, my expectations, oh, did not get failed! They're totally perfect, in every way...."

"Totally perfect?" echoed Cecil.

"That's what I'd say!" Carlos smiled, feeling singsong-y and floaty. "They're sleek and modern, with even lines — I think they're from some future-y time. They're totally perfect, from roof to base. They don't have a fault — so my instruments all say. They are so totally perfect, in every way!"

The scene he had glimpsed swam in his head. It was so beautiful. He felt incomplete...unfulfilled, even...knowing it existed and he wasn't standing in it right now.

"Got one and touched it, and guess what I saw? Notebooks of data, unprocessed, just raw! They're sitting with flasks of liquid, and dials — I'm sure they're running for multiple trials! The liquids are bubbling — oh, Cecil, you see? In every detail, it's perfect for me!" He was bopping his head to the tune now. "It's totally perfect in every way — totally perfect, I'd have to say! Fairly-priced housing is hard to find, and each condo is one-of-a-kind! They're totally perfect, and perfectly good. I saw all of those things there, and oh, I understood! They are so totally perfect, in every way!"

It occurred to him that Cecil hadn't spoken for a while. Was he still listening?

"So that's what I've been up to!" said Carlos into the phone, dropping out of the rhythm for a moment. "Perhaps you have a few questions?

"You touched the condo?" asked Cecil, still singing.

"Yep!"

Cecil's chanting got urgent, insistent. "You shouldn't have done!"

"But it's for us," said Carlos dreamily.

"Just step back, pronto — get out of there, run!"

"But, no...."

"Carlos, I'm serious! Just listen, don't fuss!"

"Mmhmm." (Carlos wasn't listening.)

"Need you to wait right —" Cecil stuttered. "— Did you say 'for us'?"

"Oh, yes, I was thinking we could move in together!" Somewhere in Carlos's few remaining lucid neurons, it occurred to him that he should have mentioned this to Cecil _before_ buying the place. "More communication might have been ideal," he sang ruefully. "But once you see this, you'll know how I feel!"

"...They're totally perfect, in every way," sang Cecil, not sounding happy about it at all.

"I guarantee!"

"Totally perfect — but Carlos, stay —"

"Oh, once you see —"

"Wait there, I'll be heading right on down! Just don't you move till I come around!"

Carlos tried. He really did. There was just enough of himself still functioning that he wanted to walk across the threshold _with_ Cecil.

But it wasn't enough. He could hear the liquids in motion, the dials ticking, all kinds of meters beeping and dinging in the most delightful way. "I need to get back to those flasks, Cecil," he said dazedly.

"You don't need to!" Cecil's voice sounded very far away.

"I do." Carlos's eyes were going out of focus; all he could see was the featureless black wall of the condo in front of him. "Did I mention they were bubbling?"

"It isn't real!"

"I didn't say it was real, I said...." Carlos took a deep breath and launched into one more verse. "It's totally perfect and here's my aim: If we both go in here, then we'll become the same! We will be totally perfect...."

"Be totally perfect," echoed Cecil, distant and afraid.

The phone slipped out of Carlos's hands. He couldn't hear Cecil at all now, but he could only assume his boyfriend was singing along: "Oh, we will be totally perfect, in every way!"

It was the last thing he knew for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Omigod You Guys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mILEnI5cZmw)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/legallyblonde/omigodyouguys.htm)) (minus the chanting) from _Legally Blonde_ , "[One Jump Ahead](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYQ_B_06g-s)" ([lyrics](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/classicdisney/onejumpahead.htm)) from _Aladdin_ (hat tip to Gen for the suggestion), and "[Practically Perfect](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eDsRWubPV4)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/marypoppins/practicallyperfect.htm)) from _Mary Poppins_.
> 
> FTR, the events of the live shows aren't being included in order from the date they were released, but in the order I think makes most sense continuity-wise.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Do you hear the Girl Scouts sing?_


	6. Act I, tracks 20-22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamika is an awesome revolutionary, Janice is not allowed to join the revolution, and Steve is a pretty great revolutionary dad. A chapter of stirring battle marches and heartwarming family ballads, in which the local Strexcorp security director has had it up to _here_ with little girls.
> 
> (Content note: Desert-Bluffs-style violence in the last song.)

Carlos was alive, he was real, he was imperfect, and he was vaguely aware that he was rambling.

He was in Cecil's arms. That much he was sure of. They were in an awkward heap on what was probably ground...hopefully the ground from the formerly-vacant lot Carlos had left to enter his condo in the first place. Cecil appeared to be wearing a dress Carlos had never seen before. Said dress also appeared to be totally smouldering. (Figuratively.)

Resting his head on Cecil's chest, Carlos played with a bit of ruffled fabric at Cecil's sloping neckline and finally got around to the point he had been trying to make: the key words being _home together_.

Cecil squeaked, and hugged him tighter, and exclaimed, "Yes! Yes, that would be neat!"

Which made Carlos happy enough that he figured even if Cecil played this whole thing on the radio later, he would get over it.

He closed his eyes, nuzzling Cecil's neck. It hadn't come together exactly the way he'd planned it, but it had basically worked out in the end. Results were what mattered most to a scientist. Results and...Carlos's hand, curled around Cecil's waist, drifted down to investigate Cecil's leg...and what felt like some kind of thigh-high boots under the dress. Wow. "Cecil?"

"Yes? ...Carlos?"

"You," said Carlos, "are hotter than liquid palmitic acid."

"...Am I?"

Sometimes Carlos forgot that not everyone knew their carboxylic acids. He added a hasty explanation. "The melting point of palmitic acid is three hundred and thirty-six Kelvins."

"Oh," said Cecil...and started to sniffle.

Carlos caught his breath. "Cecil? Cecil, it's a good thing, I promise!"

"I f-figured." A couple of tears leaked down into Carlos's hair. "It's just...I thought for sure this would be our big duet moment, and instead here you're still recovering when I almost _lost_ you, and for a while there I was afraid I _had_ lost you, and we were never going to have _any_ chance to do a romantic song together, and, and...!"

It took a little time and extra effort, but Carlos managed to sit up under his own power, the better to give Cecil a slightly more egalitarian variety of hug. He was starting to recover his senses by now. They were, indeed, in the lot out back of the Ralph's, with Carlos's equipment still piled off to the left, and half a dozen huge featureless black cubes looming around them. "I'm okay now," he said, pressing his forehead against Cecil's. "I'm sorry I scared you. They got in my head, you know? I never would've risked...you, if I'd been in my right mind."

Gulping hard, Cecil nodded.

"I...I'm sorry I can't sing, normally," added Carlos. "Then we could decide to do a duet on our own time, instead of waiting for the musical front to hit us just right."

Cecil wiped his eyes. "Wouldn't be the same. We'd have to do months of practice, vocal training, to say nothing of the choreography...b-but thank you."

"And hey, it's not like we need a song to prove anything, right?" Carlos smoothed back Cecil's hair. "What you just did...that was kind of a big deal. A lot bigger than any musical number."

"Well...yes." Cecil sat up straighter, looping his arms over Carlos's shoulders. "Maybe according to the laws of science. But according to the laws of drama...? Under a musical front this long, any couple worth its salt _has_ to get a big romantic number!"

"You're sure?" pressed Carlos.

Around them, an a capella choir began to coo.

"Absolutely!" exclaimed Cecil. "It's practically mandatory!"

A violin and a gentle piano soared into hearing, above the lovely, almost angelic invisible chorus.

"Once in every show, there comes a song like this," Cecil began to croon. "It starts off soft and low, and ends up with a kiss....Oh where is the song that goes like thi—"

Before he could even finish the verse, the whole thing abruptly cut off. It was replaced with a slow, strumming guitar. And drums. Intent, purposeful drums.

Cecil glanced around them. In a low voice, he said, "I think maybe we should get out of here."

Following his gaze, Carlos realized with a start that they weren't alone. A couple of the realtors who had been speaking to the condo shoppers earlier — how had Carlos not noticed the orange-triangle logos in their name tags? He should have been immediately suspicious when he didn't see them climbing out of the bellies of deer — were standing among the faceless cubes. There were no buyers left in sight. Everyone except Carlos had been sucked in and was stuck there.

There were, however, at least a dozen tweens and teenagers facing the realtors down. Most of them girls, wearing protective masks and jade-green vests.

"We should help them," whispered Carlos. He didn't know how, or even if they needed it — he recognized the formidable Tamika Flynn, who had killed a librarian with her bare hands, standing front and center — but it seemed important to try.

"We should not," hissed Cecil. "You are in no condition to fight. Do not make them waste resources defending you."

Carlos wanted to protest, but when Cecil had to help him stand up, he realized it was true. He leaned heavily on Cecil's shoulders as they scooted sideways, away from what had been Carlos's condo, away from the area that was on the verge of becoming a battlefield.

Tamika gave no sign of paying them any attention...but it was only when they were safely out of the line of fire that her voice rang across the lot, with the slow grandeur of a battle march:

"Do you hear the Girl Scouts sing? Singing a song of citizens! It is the music of a Night Vale that its people will defend! When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, we will rise up all over town and make Strexcorp run!"

Two of the girls — faces hidden by the masks, but one of them looking oddly familiar — were setting up a bloodstone circle in the scrubby grass. Others were raising slingshots, aiming menacingly at the Strex-affiliated realtors. One took up the chant from Tamika: "Will you join in our crusade? Will you say, yes, you are fulfilled? Rescued from corporate scams and raids, is there a world you long to build?"

"Then join in our battle before they can get us all killed!" soloed the one Carlos could swear he knew from somewhere.

Slingshots at the ready, they changed.

"Do you hear the Girl Scouts sing? Singing a song of citizens! It is the music of a Night Valet that its people will defend!" chorused all the girls together, over the thudding of boots on solid earth and the shattering of rock against...whatever material the condos were made of. "Do you hear the Girl Scouts sing? Say, do you hear the drums resound? It is the promise of a future with Strex thrown out!"

The condo nearest Carlos began to fade into midair, melting out of this plane of existence altogether.

Another scout's solo echoed over the commotion: "Will you give all you can give, till our invaders have enough? Some will fall and some will live: will you stay in when it gets tough? Night Vale will honor its fallen, unlike Desert Bluffs!"

Carlos and Cecil might not be in any shape to fight, but they found their voices joining in with the rest of the chorus, proud and strong: "Do you hear the Girl Scouts sing? Singing a song of citizens! It is the music of a Night Vale that its people will defend! When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, we will rise up all over town and make Strexcorp run!"

(When Cecil got back on-air, Carlos had a strong feeling most of this wasn't going to make it into the broadcast.)

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Renée Carlsberg got home late.

It was basically her dad's fault. He was the one who had taught her all the best, longest, most roundabout ways to sneak through Night Vale so that even most of the Sheriff's secret police couldn't tail you. And sure, maybe these Strex people didn't know the town so well yet, and she didn't _have_ to take the most complicated route possible...but would Dad want her to take that chance? Definitely not.

When she arrived at the apartment, it was practically eight o'clock. Dinner was long over. Dad was sitting in an armchair in the front room, reading a book, which he put down in order to give her a stern frown. "Where exactly have you been, young lady?"

Renée took a deep breath. "Definitely not helping organize an anti-corporate revolution, or anything like that."

Her father considered this, unblinking, then nodded. "Well, you missed dessert, but there's leftover risotto in the fridge. Get started on your homework, and I'll warm some up for you."

So Renée ended up sitting at the kitchen table, poring over her math book and a plate of mushroom risotto.

Halfway down the worksheet, her little sister came in and hopped into the seat across from her. Janice had already had a bath and changed into pajamas, her wet dark hair pulled back in a scrunchie. "You still got homework?"

"I had stuff to do today," said Renée. "Besides, I have lots of homework. You're lucky now, but someday you'll understand. Fifth grade is _literally_ the worst."

"It is not," said Janice immediately. "You're not using 'literally' right at all. I learned about it while working on my Not Assassinating the English Language badge."

"Fine," huffed Renée. Janice hadn't even wanted to _get_ that badge, but her uncle had insisted (something about not letting Dad's abuses of grammar poison her), and now she went around lording it over everyone. "It's _metaphorically_ the worst. Happy now?"

Janice drummed her fingertips on the table. She didn't look real happy. "I've got lots of badges, you know."

"Yeah, I know."

"I've already got Advanced Siege-Breaking Tactics. Most people don't get that while they're still Brownies, but I got it."

"I _know_."

"Then how come you went off and did armed insurrection stuff without me?"

"Shut up, I did not!" hissed Renée, looking meaningfully at the window their local secret-police observer usually lurked out of.

"Oh, right, okay, you didn't," said Janice, then leaned over the table and whispered, "You _so_ did. I Saw it! Next time, you gotta take me with you."

"No," said Renée flatly.

"I want to help! And I'd be good at it! And I have a right. It's my town too!"

"No. Tamika Flynn says you can't."

Ever since that summer, Tamika was basically everyone's hero. More for Janice than Renée, though. Renée hadn't even gotten sucked into the Summer Reading Program, just heard the war stories afterward...but Janice had been in there, and had seen Tamika take out a librarian firsthand. She would listen to that kind of authority, right?

Apparently not: "You should tell her I'm Seeing things," said Janice. "I bet she'd change her mind then."

"I already did, actually," fired back Renée. Janice hadn't told their parents yet, or even her uncle, that she had started to See things (with a capital S) a couple months ago. So Renée hadn't spilled the beans to any of them either, but she had laid it out for Tamika. "We've got a bunch of scrying people already. We don't need you."

Janice was going into full sulk mode. Suddenly — though Renée hadn't heard any instruments starting up around them — she burst out, in a ringing, melodic voice that canted through notes with way more power than an eight-year-old should have had: "What about what I need?"

"Tamika says it's the best thing for the group," repeated Renée.

Now there was a French horn or something, backing Janice up as she intoned, "What about what's best for me?" 

"She feels like it's too risky to get you involved."

"What about how I feel?" sang Janice, practically vibrating with the emotion of it.

Renée, meanwhile, was still having to come up with her own lines; what was up with that? When was she getting a little lyrical help, here? "Besides, I can't fight as good if I'm worrying about you. Janice, do it for me."

"What about me? What about me?"

"It's — more than you," sang Renée softly, and, cool, there were her lyrics! With a gentle piano melody carrying her along. "It is more than me! We are not alone — we all have family. Your uncle's important, here, and if Strex got you — he'd have to help them out. Oh, what else could he do?"

At that, she could finally see the wheels starting to turn in Janice's night-dark eyes.

Good. Renée pushed her homework and her empty plate aside and leaned forward, building on her theme. "It's more than you, it is more than me...we can't make plans without planning for family. We're not alone in this war! No, there's lots of us here! And what we need from you is not to disappear. So don't think you're going — you'll be staying right there! Find a way of doing your share. Don't worry 'bout the battlefield — I'll be there!"

She hadn't noticed the footsteps coming down the hall until Dad came in, standing behind Janice and putting his hands on her shoulders.

They all took the next verse as a group, so it wasn't just Renée singing to Janice, it was everybody singing to everybody. "We are a family, and that loyalty will never let us stand by...we are a family, we are so much more than just you and I! We are a family, and it's plain to see — that can be a strength or weakness; handle carefully.....We need you. We are a family...!"

A final piano chord closed them out.

"And on that note," said Dad (with a big grin to make sure they knew he'd made a pun), "it's past time for certain family members to be in bed. C'mon, sweetheart. Let your sister finish her homework."

"'Kay," said Janice. Now that the song was over, she was yawning; she hopped off her chair, gave Dad a hug, and made for their rooms. "G'night."

Renée grabbed her plate to take it to the sink, planning to follow Janice right afterward. "I'm mostly finished," she informed her father. "And it's really late. I should get a full night's sleep. It's important for _optimal scholarly performance_."

"Only if you were going to school tomorrow," said Dad.

Renée stopped short. It wasn't a holiday or anything. Was it?

"It just so happens," her father continued, "that you're going to be calling in sick. Lots of girls around your age are. It's a shame, because something tells me a couple of corporate education consultants are going to be doing a tour of local schools tomorrow, and they would love to meet you...but oh well, can't be helped. After all, it's not like they have any excuse...I mean, reason...to go around and check people's homes one by one."

Renée took a couple of seconds to figure all this out, then jumped forward and crushed him into a hug of her own. "You are the best dad ever!"

"You do still have to _finish_ your homework," said Dad, though he didn't hesitate to hug back. "And I'm sure you'll be feeling better by afternoon. Better enough that we can go down to the rec center."

"I guess I do need to brush up on my hand-to-hand combat skills," agreed Renée. "For important health and fitness reasons."

Dad gave her an extra squeeze. "That's my girl."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The newly-appointed Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area Regional Security Director for the Night Vale area was not having a good week.

To be perfectly honest, under her current title, she had _never_ had a good week.

(If you defined "good" as "productive," at least. The Director always had _happy_ and _upbeat_ weeks. It was part of her job description.)

In her office, working late, and once again with a fresh stack of Incident Reports to make no progress on, the Director got up from her desk and went to pace in front of her departmental shrine to the Smiling God. She had every intention of praying.

She ended up singing.

(That had _never_ happened before she came to this stupid, backward, company-forsaken town.)

"Little girls, little girls! Every new report, I can see them," she lamented. "Little girls, little girls: night and day I eat, sleep and breathe them! I'm a gal with job satisfaction — I like to rip my foes apart. It's fun! And these are all so frail and small...so why can't I impale a single one?"

The faces of her targets danced in her mind's eye. Especially that Flynn girl. So uncooperative...so impertinent...such a _troublemaker_.

"Little veins, little teeth — taunting me with how I can't find them! Just slash one little neck: surely others would fall in line, then!" The Director shook her head. "Some folks get to prosecute spycraft. Some get all the thefts in the world. Lucky me, lucky me, look at what I'm chasing down: little girls!"

They would have to come down harder. Push up the schedule of the bloodstone removal plan. Move in on some of the local businesses that had been stubborn holdouts. And never, ever let on that a Strexcorp security division appeared to be in over its head.

"How I hate little shoes, little vests, with all of those badges!" The Director had been a Girl Scout herself. They learned _productive_ things. Like sound investment strategies, and how to use knowledge of consumer behavior to choose a target market, or, if one didn't exist, how to create it. "Who taught them combat skills? Growing up too fast! Oh, it's tragic!"

Her smile, so carefully maintained, contorted into something that could almost be called a snarl.

"Some day I'll carve them new smiles...some night I'll rip off their curls...!" She turned directly to the shrine, sending out a heartfelt plea: "Send a flood, send the flu — anything that You can do — to little girls!"

Of course it didn't work out that easily. If things were easy, why would efficiency and productivity be so important?

The Director stalked back toward her own office, claws digging into her hands. "Some day I'll land in the nut house, with all the nuts and the squirrels!" she railed to the empty halls. "There I'll stay, till corporate regulation of...little girls!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand, Cecil starts to sing "[The Song That Goes Like This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-fG8c-CMoU)" from _Spamalot_. It's not being included in the track count, because (a) it's just the original song, not a riff written for the story, and (b) he doesn't get to finish. Today's full-on parody songs to the tune of "[Do You Hear The People Sing?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuihgYRmhqc)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/lesmiserables/doyouhearthepeoplesing.htm)) from _Les Miserables_ , "[Family](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nPJamU6oGXQ)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/dreamgirls/family.htm)) (with a hat tip to thundercaya for pointing me toward _Dreamgirls_ ), and "[Little Girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoNk_-IaAeo)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/annie/littlegirls.htm)) from _Annie_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Come my little plants, as we all sing a nice upbeat lawn-mowing song / Blades of grass are whistling right along_


	7. Act I, tracks 23a-26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a lazy day, but Carlos ends up on a cleaning spree, complete with motivational song. His counterpart in Desert Bluffs does the same thing, with almost the same song...almost. (There's a lot more blood in his version.) Cecil gets to end his day with cuddling and lullabies, but Mayor Winchell is feeling pretty down about how the whole thing unfolded, until Trish Hidge rallies a bar full of people to cheer her up.

Carlos woke up, as he usually did these days, in bed with Cecil. Today it was his own bed, in the rental house he still shared with his (remaining) teammates. They were working on the whole moving-in thing, but it turned out Cecil's lease wasn't up for a few more months...and while he might have broken it for the right place, house-hunting took _time_ when you weren't being hypnotized into signing papers on the first day.

The other scientists left for work before he did. They were all used to Carlos spending mornings with Cecil, and working late into the night after most of them had gone home, until Cecil's show was over.

Carlos thought about getting out of bed and making breakfast. It didn't seem worth the effort. Then he thought about something that would require less work: staying right here and waking Cecil up by getting handsy. But even then, why bother, when it would be so much easier just to lie here and listen to Cecil breathe?

It was maybe twenty minutes before he realized that Cecil _was_ awake. They had each been so quiet and still that the other hadn't noticed.

"I need to get up soon," mumbled Cecil. "Mornin' staff meeting today. Calling us in early. Stupid evil bosses."

Carlos mustered up the energy to roll over and cuddle, nuzzling Cecil's neck. "So defy 'em."

Cecil pouted. "Sounds like so much _work_."

Carlos knew the feeling.

Still, Cecil loved his job, no matter how evil the management, and that eventually got him up and dressed and standing at Carlos's door. "Ugh, _travel_ ," he said plaintively, kissing Carlos goodbye. "Going places. Moving your feet, you know? You're so lucky you can work from home."

And Carlos tried. He really did. He spent half an hour at his laptop: formatting a spreadsheet of geological analyses, rearranging his folders of old conference papers, looking at his email and trying to find something he could answer without having to think about it all that much.

He was getting absolutely nowhere. And not in the sense that he usually got nowhere with science in Night Vale, either.

Maybe he should change tactics. Put the job aside altogether. Carlos's work ethic wouldn't let him go back to bed the way he really wanted to, but surely he could do something less thought-intensive. When was the last time the house had been cleaned?

Just thinking about the question made Carlos perk up. All right, that settled it. He would clean house.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

In another part of the desert — in a town very much like Night Vale in some ways, and, in other ways, not like it at all — another man was feeling the effects of the lazy day.

His name was Carlo. He was a scientist, with pale, weathered skin and hair cut efficiently short. On some level he would always be an Outsider, but he was a long-term resident of Desert Bluffs by this point, and loved it enough to call it home.

More than a year ago, Carlo had been very distressed by some of the things his science was finding in Desert Bluffs. Then a couple of very nice Strexcorp agents had knocked him over the head, driven him in circles for several hours, and had a friendly chat in which they explained that absolutely nothing was wrong.

These days, Carlo wasn't distressed by much of anything.

He slept alone, with his Strexcorp-issued phone always in easy reach. Today he spent longer than usual lying in bed, until the phone shrieked at him with an uncharacteristically rambly message from the head of R&D: productivity was slipping all over the Greater Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area, and would he "look into it, or take care of it, or something?"

So Carlo crossed the skywalk between his towering steel apartment complex where he and his team lived, and the towering steel laboratory building where they worked. (Well, "lived" and "worked" in some cases. "Decorated the walls" in most of them.)

"It's so efficient, getting to live so close to our jobs," he remarked to Rachel, before yawning. "Oh, gosh...if I was any farther away I don't think I would have made it in. Phew."

 _You do look awfully tired!_ said Rachel. At least, in Carlo's head she said that. In the real world, she was mostly skeleton by this point, and not very talkative. _Maybe you should sit down and rest for a while._

"No...a company scientist doesn't slack off. That's the last thing a company scientist does," said Carlo, puttering aimlessly around the main lab. "Besides, where would I sit? The kitchen is still a mess from Dafydd exploding those specimens, and the conference room is all wet after the presentation we did for management yesterday, and my office...."

 _Sounds like you need to clean up!_ interrupted Rachel.

The suggestion cut through Carlo's mysterious lack of focus. There was an idea! He could clean the place up.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

A fluttery chorus of woodwinds followed Carlos out to the shed.

The grass under his feet was trying to join in with the music. It was getting a little tall. Carlos decided to take care of that first.

"Come my little plants, as we all sing a nice upbeat lawn-mowing song!" he trilled, breaking out the lawnmower. "Blades of grass are whistling right along! Come and roll your sleeves up, so to speak, and set to...weed the thistle and the kudzu, as we sing along!"

There seemed to be a whole bubble of energy around him now, driving away the town-wide haze of lethargy. The flies that droned around his garbage cans did so with vim and vigor. Quails hopped around the driveway; hawks and woodpeckers soared overhead.

"Trill a cheery tune while you chip off a stubborn bit of chewing gum!" warbled Carlos, indoors again, moving from under the kitchen table to over the living room carpets. "Run and empty out the vac-u-um! It's such fun to hum a happy cleaning song!"

He leaned back out the front door and soloed in the general direction of the bushes:

"We'll keep singing without fail! Maybe we can summon...our observers, to join in? Or our Faceless Old Woman? Oh!"

No one took him up on the offer, but Carlos wasn't about to let the lack of help get him down. At this rate, he was going to be able to clean the whole house in montage time! Everyone should be so lucky.

"How we all enjoy letting loose, humming while we pick the closet through! Ranking things to keep and to eschew, singing, la-da-doo...a happy sorting song. Ooh, a happy sorting song!"

He had sorted his entire wardrobe and was working in the back yard when everything — stray tools, lizards and bugs, potted plants, his feet — started drifting gently off the ground.

"Oh...we're floating now, I see," crooned Carlos to nobody in particular. "I guess that gravity...is dozing off now? Still, as long as I am up...I'm thinking that the gutters could stand to be cleared out." He squinted at the muck in the nearest one. "Are those bean sprouts...?"

He was just finishing this task when the law of gravity reasserted itself. Time to tackle the bathrooms.

"You can do a lot when you got such a happy cleaning tune to hum, while you're sponging up the soapy scum! We'll go through each filthy room and leave it gleaming...even when the mold is screaming, we're a happy cleaning song...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Around the same time as Carlos got started, a fluttery chorus of woodwinds followed Carlo into the supply closet.

He didn't worry about it. After he and his team had determined that the strange musical phenomenon wasn't under anyone's control, and, more importantly, that it didn't have any negative effects on productivity, Upper Management had stopped ordering the confiscation of life from anyone who fell under it.

Carlo snapped on a pair of heavy-duty plastic gloves, stretched a mask over his face and a cap over his hair, and dragged out the heavy-duty washer. First stop: the break room!

"Come my dear machines, as we all sing a happy power-washing song!" he crooned, aiming for the worst of the stains. "Using industrial solvents, strong!" To the nearest skull he added, "Come and roll your sleeves up, so to speak, and pitch in, cleaning blood up in the kitchen as we sing along!"

Next up, the decontamination chambers! Which you would think the janitorial staff would keep clean on their own.

"Trill a cheery tune in decon as we scrub a stubborn organ stain! Pull intestine from the shower drain, to the gay refrain of a happy cleaning song!"

Maybe Carlo would have to advertise for replacements. He would call HR later and have them announce that the first applicant to defeat each current janitor in a duel could take over the job. And speaking of duels, the men's room was still covered in scrapes from that guy who had tried to usurp Daffyd's position last month.

Carlo switched to a new piece of equipment, fixing on the sander attachment. "We'll keep singing, dawn till dark, with the power drill out: sanding down the stray knife marks, and retouching the tile grout, oh!" After that, all he had to do was dispose of what was left of the usurper. "Our competitors letting loose, with their teeth and fists and sometimes guns...inconvenient how they leave the bones! In the trash they go, to a garbage-bagging song. Ooh, a garbage-bagging song!"

The key of the melody changed as he hauled the bags down the hallway — which was going to have to be the last place he cleaned. Otherwise he'd just be coming back to it over and over.

Looking back at the fresh trail of bloody footsteps he was leaving, Carlo sighed. "Oh, the mess this place can be, when Strexcorp comes to see our work with science...."

He shrugged.

"Still, as long as we are here, it isn't worth the fear of being uncompliant, or defiant!"

Time to take on that conference room!

"You can do a lot when you got such a nice productive song to croon, scrubbing carpets through the afternoon! We adore the greater purpose that we're serving, praising Strexcorp while unfurling an efficient working song...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Without knowing it, Carlos was skipping back to his own room at the same time as Carlo was twirling into the main lab, both of them with dust cloths on hand.

Carlos had an old-fashioned radio, that worked whether or not it was plugged in, and occasionally picked up broadcasts from the void on a clear night when you held the antenna just right. Carlo and his team had a sleek, modern device, with huge speakers and microelectronics, helpfully pre-set to pick up Strex-approved stations.

"Singing as we wipe off the radio," they unwittingly chorused. "Listen to it as we do daily, oh! Sing along — if you cannot sing then hum along — as we're finishing our happy cleaning song!"

On Carlos's freshly-dusted radio, Cecil welcomed them back from the weather. As he did, Carlos noticed noticed the Faceless Old Woman out of the corner of his eye, starting to rearrange his freshly-sorted lab coats so they wouldn't upset her. Seemed like things were getting back to normal.

On Carlo's newly blood-free radio, Kevin welcomed them back from the weather. He wasn't singing, but Carlo sat back and took the opportunity to listen to him anyway. Talk about people who knew how to sound happy! Carlo always felt better when he was able to hear Kevin's voice.

"Ah," sighed Carlo and Carlos, each to themselves, "wasn't that fun?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Even with the overwhelming sluggishness of the day keeping productivity down, Strexcorp's advertising agents found a way to turn it to their advantage. There was a group of them in the square when Cecil went to catch the bus to Carlos's place, enthusiastically hawking a new line of Strex-brand sleepwear.

They were even doing a song about it. Practically a hymn. "Strexnap, Strexnap, Strexnap, we pledge our hearts: devotion to thee, to thee!" they chorused. "Oh, Strexnap, Strexnap, best in the land, with your reinforced buttons, and stretchproof waistband!"

Cecil ignored them as thoroughly as he could, until finally, _finally_ his bus showed up.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Down at the hellishly exclusive Night Vale Country Club, another group of people was recovering from the effects of the lazy day. Mayor Pamela Winchell had dozed during a press conference, several members of the City Council had banged their heads on the council chamber ceiling when gravity let go, and half the mayoral aides had let themselves go invisible and were still trying to muster up the energy to switch back.

The most devoted mayoral aide of all, Trish Hidge, had totally worked the invisibility thing out hours ago. Now she was working on the far more important problem of making the Mayor happy again.

"If the pulses from Hidden Gorge have any sense, they'll just re-elect you," she declared, bringing another mug of beer over to Mayor Winchell's antelope-horned leather armchair around the poker table. "You're much more qualified than someone who doesn't even have a face! And how is a dragon supposed to understand the needs of the all-important human demographic?"

A centaur on the other side of the table politely cleared his throat.

"He won't appreciate the equine demographic either," said Trish. "You watch."

"It's no use," sighed Winchell. "I'm being deposed. I will never again be able to call daily press conferences. Never scuttle like a crab up the walls of the forbidden dog park. Never again burn like a match tip and cast my flickering light on the darkened path of fate." She tossed her cards down on the table. "I fold."

"But you're so much more than just your Mayoral powers!" exclaimed Trish. "Mayor Winchell — or, as you will soon be proudly known, just plain Winchell — you've got to pull yourself together!"

The Mayor leaned on the tabletop, resting her chin in her hand. "This is going to be a song, isn't it."

Trish clapped her hands. "See! For starters, you should be proud of your unparalleled foresight!"

She perched on the arm of Winchell's chair, delicately crossing her ankles in their high-heeled pumps and taking a second to smooth down her grey pencil skirt as the disembodied orchestra kicked in.

"Gosh it disturbs me to see you, Winchell, looking so down and depressed," she crooned. With a sweep of her arm she indicated the rest of the room. "Everyone here'd love to be you, Winchell, even when strung out and stressed! There's no one in town as admired as you — you're ev'ryone's favorite gal. Ev'ryone's awed and inspired by you, and it's not very hard to see how...."

Trish jumped to her feet again, strolling across the polished hardwood floor to the bar.

"No one's slick as Winchell, no one's quick as Winchell, no one knows her municipal tricks like Winchell! There's no marksman in town half as lethal — perfect, a pure paragon." She sashayed down the line of bar stools, spinning people around in their seats to face the center of the room. "You can ask any Paul, Tak, or Rico, and they'll tell you whose team they prefer to be on!"

The other drinkers jumped in to sing the next verse along with her. "No one's fair like Winchell, got a glare like Winchell —"

Whipping a compact out of someone's pocket, Trish slid effortlessly back to the Mayor's armchair and flipped it open. "Flawless dark finger waves in her hair like Winchell!"

In spite of herself, the Mayor's face softened as she examined herself in the mirror. "Yes, my style is iconic, it's unsurprising...."

"My what a gal, that Winchell!" chorused the crowd. Mugs and glasses were raised all over, from the poker table to the bar. "Give five hurrahs, give twelve hip-hips — Winchell is the best and the rest are all drips...!"

Even Leann Hart put down her axe to tip her mug in appreciation. "No one fights like Winchell, censors slights like Winchell —"

Trish thought happily back to the last mayoral press conference. "No one vibrates and stares at bright lights like Winchell!"

 **"No one has a complexion as flawless,"** trilled a group of City Council members, with matching scarlet robes and perfectly in-sync voices.

"I do exfoliate, and it shows," allowed Winchell, running a perfectly-manicured hand along her smooth olive cheek.

"No one knows more on singing to mosses," added Trish, knocking the poker winnings in all directions as she shoved a planter full of different varieties across the table.

"That's right!" exclaimed the Mayor, and the moss in front of her perked up in leafy excitement as her voice resounded through it: "How else can you stimulate mosses to grow?"

Someone slapped a graph up on the wall, documenting the Mayor's poll numbers over the past year. There were some record-breaking spikes, especially after her initiatives to promote music and creative writing in the public schools, and the crowd sang its approval: "No one charts like Winchell, backs the arts like Winchell —"

Trish tore the graph down, revealing the bullseye underneath it. "In a game of darts no one throws darts like Winchell!"

At last the Mayor got up from her seat. "I do best under rules of my own devising!" she sang, and slung a dart which hit, not the target at all, but the crumpled-up graph still in Trish's hands.

"Ten points for Winchell!" cheered the crowd.

It was Winchell's turn to stroll down the bar, fingers hooking around a cup of something black and sludgy when the bartender held it out. "When I was a child I had four cups of joe every day to help keep me adept." She downed the liquid in one gulp, then handed the empty cup to Trish, who was sauntering proudly along by her side as the invisible violins swelled. "And now that I'm grown I have five espressos — can't recall the last time that I slept!"

"No one croons like Winchell, doubts the moon like Winchell," sang the other drinkers, swaying back and forth as she passed.

"Then goes handing out colored balloons like Winchell!" trilled Trish, as the Mayor spat out several dozen of same. They floated toward the vaulted ceiling, hovering like a personal mayoral appreciation parade.

Winchell spun to a halt in front of the club's fireplace, striking a pose and flicking her hands so the light of the flames caught on her bracelet, her ring, her earrings, and her necklace. "I use bloodstones in all my accessorizing!"

"My, what a gal — Winchell!" thundered the crowd, under Trish's triumphant direction.

For a lazy day, it was a wonderfully energetic evening. Especially when Winchell turned to Trish and smiled — a real, authentic smile of Pamela Winchell approval, just for her. In that moment, Trish was certain that if mountains existed, she could have moved one singlehandedly.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The house was immaculate when Cecil got there...and strangely empty. He let himself in with his own key, then hesitated on the threshold. Carlos had never responded to Cecil's text saying he was coming over; maybe that meant he wasn't invited after all.

"No, he typed his answer all out," said the Faceless Old Woman who lived in Carlos's home. (And who, soon, would also live in _Carlos's and Cecil's_ home.) "And then got so sleepy he didn't manage to send it. If you hurry, you just might catch him before he passes out."

"Thanks!" said Cecil, and scampered up the stairs.

Carlos was, indeed, pretty much dead to the world. He was flat on his stomach with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed, and didn't even open his eyes when Cecil came in. When Cecil tiptoed over to get a closer look, though, Carlos managed a crack of the eyelids and a soft "Hi."

"Hey." Cecil toed off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. "If you were waiting up for me, you can go ahead and stop now."

"Mrmph," said Carlos eloquently, shutting down again.

Cecil kind of wanted to talk anyway. He had gone from sleepy and stumbly to excited, curious, and utterly wired on coffee. But he held it in, restraining himself to running his hands along Carlos's back and gently massaging out some of the tension from all the work Carlos had been doing that day.

A gentle piano started to play around them. Carlos was obviously too knocked-out for a duet right this second, so Cecil didn't get his hopes up. Instead, he let himself slip into a lullaby.

"Close your eyes, go to sleep...lay your head on down beside me," he crooned, touch wandering up to the nape of Carlos's neck and sliding back down his spine. "Slumber deep, recover from your day....If you ever lose your way, may the nonexistent angels track you down, come to take you home. Sleep tonight, my Carlos, you are home. You and I together make a home...."

 _Home._ With his perfectly imperfect Carlos. It sounded so great.

And Cecil would just have to learn to deal with the way Carlos sometimes co-opted half the dishes from the kitchen to use for experiments. Or forgot to put the mirror cover down in the bathroom. Or got distracted by some mundane thing like a singing cactus on his way to the store and only came back with extra salt long after Cecil's imaginary-corn-on-the-cob had gone cold. Besides, imperfect or not, Carlos would probably get better about all that once they were actually living together.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Happy Working Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pb2si7fClqA)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/annie/littlegirls.htm)) from _Enchanted_ , "[Sleep-Tite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=no5YJwUHSMM)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/pajamagamethe/sleeptite.htm)) from _The Pajama Game_ , "[Gaston](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBqt0a8sgWM)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/disneysbeautyandthebeast/gaston.htm)) from _Beauty and the Beast_ (h/t Gen for the suggestion), and "[Lullaby](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KarpYKlSIag)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/scarletpimpernelthe/lullaby.htm)) from _The Scarlet Pimpernel_.
> 
> Meanwhile: [another cover of Good Morning Night Vale](https://soundcloud.com/elsewhere-kels/good-morning-night-vale), by Kels!
> 
> NEXT TIME: _I think I'll try defying management / And they can't shut me down_


	8. Act I, tracks 27-29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving comes and goes, with the traditional songs of praise to the Brownstone Spire. Tamika rallies her troops. And Cecil launches into a showstopper about supporting Night Vale's heroes. (He may have bitten off more than he can chew.)

Hannah Gutierrez was still in costume from the annual Thanksgiving Day Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest (she had gone as Janis Rio, from down the street) when she and Lucy made their way to the Brownstone Spire for the traditional terrified groveling.

They arrived just in time to join in with the late crowd...which looked oddly gender-segregated, mostly men to her left and women to her right. Hannah spotted Steve at the near edge of the men's section with his eight-year-old daughter riding on his shoulders, and headed over to greet them.

"Hi, Miz Hannah!" said Janice happily. Anybody who sold ice cream was all right with her. "Do you have extra popsicle sticks? Daddy said we could make popsicle-stick turkeys, but the first one turned into a swarm of bees and flew away, and then we ran out before we could make another."

"We'll check the stock room first thing tomorrow, _preciosa_ ," promised Hannah. "Steve, is something going on? Did the Spire demand we group up by gender, or something?"

"Oh, not at all! It's just that every group who's shown up today has done the same song," said Steve. "So we're splitting up by vocal range early, to make the choreography easier. Baritones and tenors over here, sopranos and altos over there."

Lucy followed Hannah across the barren landscape of sharp rocks and sand, dotted with the results of people getting their feet cut up trying to venture too close to the Spire. "Do you know which ones we are?"

"I'm an alto," Hannah tells her. "I always thought you were a soprano...and ever since our duet last week, I know for sure."

No sooner had they settled in next to Diane Craton and her kids than the horns and strings kicked in.

"Today our town is getting bought up," chorused most of the crowd, dozens of adults in the shadow of the Spire. "Today we're paid in Strexcorp marks."

Since the White Sand refused to _accept_ Strex scrip, Hannah lamented, "We're losing customers aplenty — and not to the Dog Park!"

"But hey, at least there's not much blood loss," rumbled the low-range section.

"At least they're not importing bread," added Hannah, Lucy, and the other high-range singers around them.

"At least my kids aren't failing scrying," sang Steve. Up on his shoulders, Janice bobbed back and forth to the music.

"So bow all your heads!" intoned the whole group: adults and children of all ages, in all vocal ranges. "We'd like to thank you, Brownstone Spire! You've been so merciful today. We'd like to thank you, Brownstone Spire, for your acceptance when we say: You could have made it so much worse here! Made us regretful, scared, and lost! And left us desperate to please you — yes! At any cost! Instead you take our pleas and prayers, our cries of thanks and our shaloms...and once we've done sufficient shaking, you let us go home! Although we can't pronounce your slogan, oh, Brownstone Spire, you're so nice: what we can give, with human limits, you let that suffice! Oh, Spire...!"

"You sit, imposing, on the skyline," trilled the sopranos and altos.

The rest of the group joined them: "Your base all strewn with jagged stones."

"You want a sacrifice?" began the baritones and tenors.

"We'll make one!" soloed Lucy, her voice beautiful as always...especially with the effects of the musical front keeping it in the right key. "You want a freebie ice cream cone...?"

"All during our Thanksgiving dinners, we couldn't keep you off our minds," sang the whole post-dinner groveling crowd. "But through the turkey and the stuffing, you were all too kind! We'd like to thank you, Brownstone Spire —"

"Thank you, Spire!" put in the kids.

"— for sparing us another year!"

Just the low range: "You blaze of glory —"

Just the high: "— from a quarry —"

And once again it was all of them together, chanting in harmony under the stars. "— left us safe and well today! Thank you, thank you, Spire!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

On a cold, grey morning out in the sand wastes, Tamika had cold leftover birthday cake for breakfast before addressing her new recruits.

It was a Sunday, so even the most responsible school-attending children of Night Vale could make it. And make it they had! Several hundred of them, including her fellow survivors of the Summer Reading Program, uniformed packs of Girl and Boy Scouts at all levels, and other miscellaneous brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, and assorted relatives of various genders who had been affected by Strex's slow but voracious takeover.

"I know some of you need more practice with hand-to-hand," said Tamika, speaking into a microphone from her perch on a large boulder. "But we've made great progress, and we gotta mix it up a little...so we're going to start doing weapons drills!"

Mixed reaction from the troops. Some kids cheered. Others looked uncertain, even reluctant. A couple of the more feral ones growled, though whether that meant they were eager or annoyed, it was hard to tell.

"I need three or four teams of experts to come help me round up more." Tamika was sure the Scoutmasters and the rec center would be happy to lend them out, and hey, they could always bust into some of Strexcorp's security offices and help themselves. "The rest of you will set up targets and get started with the ones we already have."

Two Dreadnought Scouts in purple neckerchiefs, and two Morrigan Scouts in viridian sashes, took the cue to open their hastily-gathered crates of arms and start passing things out. Surprisingly, it was a Blood Pact Scout near the front who first fumbled his slingshot. Looked like he hadn't earned his Projectile Weaponry badge yet. "Do we have to use these?"

A tall, wiry, feral girl growled at the Morrigan Scout who tried to give her a handgun, and swiped at her with long nails filed into claws. The message was clear: she wanted to hold this battle with claws and teeth.

"Maybe we won't have to fight at all," piped up a girl a little younger than Tamika, with a hardback copy of _Cato, A Tragedy_ clutched to her chest and a long tiger-striped tail swishing around her legs. "Maybe if we use advanced rhetoric, we can just talk them into leaving?"

"Hey!" barked Tamika, finger-wagging at all of them with the gnarled librarian-hand she wore hanging around her neck. "We do _not_ go puttin' on airs about solid, honest strategy! You got to deal with a threat, you use every tool in the box, and Strexcorp is a Threat with a capital T. So that means...."

She grabbed a set of slingshots from the nearest crate and marched down the ranks, accompanied by a strong, uncompromising beat.

"Weaponry: it's the way to get it done!" she chanted. "Weaponry — it's effective and it's fun! If you want them all to flee you, every boss and racketeer: give their acquisitions up and slink away in fear? State your wishes in a language that they all can hear, with weaponry! Am I clear?"

When it was Tamika shoving a slingshot at her, the feral girl accepted it, grumbling but obedient.

"Put slingshots on your shopping list, get guns and ammo in our midst — we'll use our books as clubs if they persist!" sang Tamika, stopping in front of the girl with the tail and rearranging her grip in a way that could lob the hardcover into the air. "When there are no cops around, shoot their helicopters down...watch out, you're aiming from the wrist!"

She demonstrated how to throw properly, from the shoulder. The tiger-tailed girl gamely tried to mimic the motion — it wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

"Just to beat 'em up is not enough, and we can't let them call our bluff! We've got to be prepared to play this rough." Tamika was marching again, glad to see some of her compatriots breaking out pocketknives and brass knuckles to show off as she went by. "They're causing fatalities in our municipality, so we must, forthwith, threaten them with: weaponry! We won't stop until they leave!"

She spun on her heel to encourage an insecure-looking gaggle of second-graders:

"Weaponry: you can do it, just believe!"

It sparked off a couple of shy smiles. Excellent.

"If we're gonna banish our invaders somewhere far away, we have to make them see that we are not in this to play! And the fastest way to put our dedication on display? Is W-E-A-P-O-N-R-Y: Weaponry! Start today!"

Some kid started clapping, and this time everyone (except the ones holding loaded firearms, or the ones who, like Megan Wallaby, were not physically equipped to clap) joined in.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Another day, another round of desperately trying to do end-runs around management while appearing to be nothing less than the perfect docile company-supporting radio host. All in between fighting off the occasional psychic invasion that a properly-maintained bloodstone circle would never have let near him.

Cecil was exhausted.

When Daniel handed him the Missing Child report for Tamika Flynn, he was, paradoxically, relieved. If Strexcorp was coming after her so blatantly, it meant she was doing something right.

At the top of the show, he innocently remarked that he wasn't sure why Strexcorp would be issuing a Missing Child Report, rather than the Flynn family or the Sheriff's secret police. (The same remark had stumped Daniel, and the man was still sparking and leaking oil outside the window of the booth.) During the community calendar, he gleefully announced that the Friday open house at the Night Vale Community College was a trap, though he made sure to blame it on giant worms. (He was going to be in _so_ much hot water with the giant-worm-rights activist blogosphere.) And when Tamika reappeared, he made a straightforward and professional report of every detail. It was _news_ , after all. Sharing it with the community was his job.

No sooner had he finished relaying Tamika's re-disappearance (right out from under the noses of a set of Strexcorp helicopters!) than his program director, Lauren Mallard, forcibly cut him to commercial and entered the booth with a stack of papers.

"More Missing Child Reports," she said, with a too-wide smile and a tight wildness around the eyes. Her teeth were very sharp. "Children keep going missing! Isn't that funny? And you know, I bet, if we find one specific child...one specific, very determined, and difficult child...and I mean that in the best possible way!...if we find that one child, I bet we'll find _all_ the missing children!"

Cecil took the pile of reports...and bit his tongue to keep from reacting. The one on top had the name and description of Renée Carlsberg.

He relayed the general message, refusing to single out and identify any of the newly "missing" children. He BSed the entire traffic report, hoping people would get the message. Then he went to commercial on his own — to a Strex ad, but it was a necessary sacrifice — and picked up his phone.

Steve answered almost instantly. "Cecil! How are you?"

"I didn't call to chat, _Steve_ ," snapped Cecil. "I called because there is a Missing Child Report for Renée on my desk, and I need a statement from her family."

After a really long pause that was probably calculated specifically to annoy Cecil, Steve said, "You'd better retract that report, Cecil. Renée is not missing. She has always been where she has been, she has always been from where she is from, and she will always be going where she is going."

"Noted," said Cecil with a sigh of relief. Renée was a good kid. It wasn't her fault her father was such a jerk. "And what about Janice?"

"She's here."

"Can I talk to her?"

"Cecil, it's after eight. She's in bed."

"Are you sure she's there?" Cecil knew Steve had a ton of alarms and safety measures, designed to make sure nobody larger than a cricket could sneak in or out of the house without being noticed, but that was no substitute for personal assurance. "Have you checked?"

"I'm checking right now."

Cecil didn't even dare to breathe until he heard Steve say, "Hey, sweetie, Uncle Cecil's on the phone. Think you could say hi?"

And a sleepy, confused, perfect little voice added, "Hi, Uncle Cecil. I was havin' a dream about you."

"Really?" said Cecil, all thoughts of Tamika and Strexcorp and everything else momentarily knocked out of his head by sheer adoration. "Neat!"

"Uh-huh," said Janice. "You an' Khoshekh were fightin' this fluffy thing with big eyes...an' then you were a pony for a while, an' Uncle Carlos was doing tests on your favorite flavor of sherbet."

Before Cecil could gush about how proud he was that Janice was obviously developing foresight (she used the phrase _uncle Carlos!_ ), Steve took the phone back. "All right, you can tell Uncle Cecil more about it tomorrow," he said cheerfully. "I hope you're happy now, Cecil?"

"I hope you're happy too," said Cecil, trying to sound snipe-y and coming off way more sincere than he intended. "I have to get back to the show now. Good night!"

Much as he hated to admit anything nice about that awful jerk, he had to allow, grudgingly, that Steve was not the worst father in the world. Janice and Renée would be safe. Cecil could keep on with the show.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

At least, he could keep on with the show until Daniel killed the power in the building.

Cecil locked the door, buying himself a few minutes while his producer went to find a security guard with keys. He didn't know for sure what he was going to do until the door opened earlier than expected — and the light from his cell phone screen revealed the faded outline of Maureen, the intern who brought him news reports when Lauren wasn't trying to make a point.

She didn't beat around the bush. "I had nothing to do with this. You'll remember that, right? Just because I make your coffee and beta-read your _Jaws_ fanfic doesn't mean I'm going to take your side in antagonizing the owners! That is not the kind of thing you don't pay me for."

"Hey, you get college credit! And very valuable work experience!" exclaimed Cecil. "But of course I'm not going to drag you into this. You're not involved. I'm the one they're coming down on."

In the dim blue lighting, Maureen bit her lip. A piccolo and a couple of trumpets played low, thoughtful notes around her.

"Cecil, listen to me." Now that her own neck was definitively off the line, she sounded almost sympathetic. "Just...do some groveling." On that note, she slipped smoothly into a tune: "Like you groveled to the Spire, and other entities before? I'm sure that you can still appease them...."

"I know," said Cecil softly. "But I can't please them...no: I _won't_ please them anymore...."

He was already starting to move: unplugging the sound board, unsecuring the cords. Where did he keep the pliers? And there had to be an extra spool of copper wire in one of these drawers....

"Something has changed within me," he sang, voice gaining strength as he worked. "Something is not the same. I'm through with playing by the rules of my new bosses' game. No more self-censorship here, no hiding who I support — I'll just hotwire the tower, patch in, and...report...!"

Cradling the sound board and pocketing everything else, he pushed open to the door and strode out into the darkened hall.

"It's time to try defying management...I think I'll try defying management! And they can't shut me down!"

"Can't I make you understand?" sang/yelled Maureen after him, as he disappeared into the stairwell. "You're having delusions of grandeur!"

In the space of a breath Cecil burst out onto the roof. "I'm through accepting limits 'cause Strexcorp says they're so!" he sang as he approached the tower, sturdy old metal reaching up into the night sky. "The people need a Voice that tells them what they need to know! Too long I've been content to leave the fight to our heroes...! No more of that — it's time to make our feelings known! Starting with my defying management — I've picked a side, I'm defying management! And they can't shut me down!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The helicopters were down; the secret Strexcorp armory out by the western edge of town was left unguarded. Tamika and a handful of Morrigan Scouts loaded rifles into the back of a spare yellow helicopter, while a feral boy who survived the Library used ash to draw a stark black eye across each of its sides.

She didn't realize the radio was on, and NVCR just eerily silent, until it crackled to life.

"Night Vale...can you hear me?" said Cecil, not speaking from the pristine quiet of a recording studio, but from somewhere with wind and distant cars. "Don't keep waiting on heroes. Take action."

 _Sure would be nice,_ thought Tamika, sliding into the passenger seat of the helicopter.

Soft, sparkly music rose up around the hangar as Cecil slipped back into song. "Unlimited...together we're unlimited. Together there's nothing we could try that has to fail, Night Vale...! Nothing we can't weather...."

"If we work together," sang Tamika in response, turning up the volume.

"...there's no fight we cannot win!" chorused Cecil along with her, their voices ringing around the hangar. "With you and I, defying management! Our battle cry, defying management!"

"They'll never bring us down!" finished Tamika, waving for her compatriots to join her.

They piled into the helicopter as the key changed. "Listeners, if you're there," said Cecil, more softly now. "I might go 'missing'...if I get caught at this. I hope I won't be missed. You don't need my assistance to be starting a resistance...it's up to you to make the choice! It's up to you, not your Voice...!"

Doors slammed, the blades started up, and over the cacophony rose trumpets, drums, and cymbals as they lifted off the ground — backup security was starting to pour into the hangar, but it was too late now — they were airborne, making a break for the clouds.

Tamika pulled a helmet down over her hair and leaned out the window, voice ringing across the sand. "If you still care to find me, look to the western sky!" she belted out at the tiny Strex drones below. "As I read somewhere lately: It's not of a cold that I shall die! And if we're flying solo, at least we're flying free! To those who'd ground us, take a message back from me: it's not just I who's defying management! Come join our side, defying management — until we've taken back our town!"

Bullets pinged off the helicopter's chassis. Tamika ducked back inside, grinning in triumph at her pilot:

"And nobody from Desert Bluffs — no company that is or was — is ever gonna bring me down!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

From the bus stop down the block, Maureen watched the silhouette on the NVCR roof. "I hope you're happy...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Far below the helicopter, Strex's backup security forces chanted in unison: "She's that girl who's missing! Get her!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"Bring me down!" sang Tamika again, more joyful than anyone who had ever served a Smiling God.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"We care for the missing, so we've got to bring her —"

Even at a distance, Tamika's cry of triumph nearly drowned them out.

"— down!" chorused the employees — but far, far too late, because Tamika had vanished into the night.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

(When Cecil came down from the roof, the lights in the building were back on. Lauren and Daniel met him at the door of the booth. They were smiling.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with illustrations! [Backless Red Chiffon](http://erinptah.deviantart.com/art/Backless-Red-Chiffon-466919077), and [Bloodstone Accessories](http://erinptah.deviantart.com/art/Bloodstone-Accessories-467533261).
> 
> Today's songs to the tune of "[We'd Like To Thank You Herbert Hoover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jAgm13acwoI)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/annie/wedliketothankyouherberthoover.htm)) from _Annie_ , "[Weaponry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3H18bkKyG8)" ([lyrics](http://phineasandferb.wikia.com/wiki/Weaponry)) from _Phineas and Ferb_ , and "[Defying Gravity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlMBcTGJ4YM)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/wicked/defyinggravity.htm)) from _Wicked_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _You've done an awesome job, Kevin!_


	9. Act I, tracks 30-33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lauren gets the vengeance-taking villain song she's been dreaming of since the day she and Cecil met. At least Carlos is waiting with a comforting little ditty when Cecil gets home. Meanwhile, in Desert Bluffs, Kevin visits his own favorite scientist to share his excitement over his upcoming Night Vale debut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon-typical gore in the section where Kevin appears.
> 
> Elsewhere, there's a new [cover of Do You Want To Get A Condo?](https://soundcloud.com/gwendalina/do-you-want-to-get-a-condo) by Gwen-chan!

"Come on, reboot already," hissed Lauren, watching Daniel's indicator lights take their sweet time in flickering on. He was supposedly a top-of-the-line biomachine, but his processors kept crashing when he heard Cecil broadcast something against company policy. It was a hell of an inconvenient weakness in this job.

So confronting Cecil in the middle of his little roof-based stunt was not an option. But as long as Daniel finished booting before Cecil came downstairs, he and Lauren could meet Cecil in the hall, and the man would never have to know the difference.

Lauren couldn't _wait_ to see Cecil's face when they confronted him.

She had been looking for an excuse to come down on that man for so long. Since the day she had met him, in fact. Lauren could remember it now, as clearly and vividly as a flashback sequence....

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Corporate hadn't given Lauren the budget for replacing any of NVCR's dusty old equipment, and Night Vale had all these bizarre legal limits on what you could and could not do to employees (like, paying them in spinal columns was allowed, but withholding taxes from their paychecks by taking _their_ spinal columns was not — in what universe did _that_ make sense?). But they did have a modest renovation budget, and Lauren had immediately taken the opportunity to knock down some walls and have them replaced by floor-to-ceiling glass panels.

Starting with her own office. Anybody walking past management's office should be able to feel the sun shining on them!

And followed immediately by her subordinates' offices, because, come on, what did they have to hide? Nothing! If they knew what was good for them, anyway.

Lauren sashayed into her fully-renovated office, settled into her ergonomic desk chair, and gave a little wave to Cecil across the hall. He glowered, gave the world's most unfriendly wave in return, and went back to his computer.

(He was wearing some ridiculous sleeveless feathered top and sequined shorts. Hopefully his style would get more modest now that Lauren had turned up the A/C, to better accommodate her own long-sleeved button-down, expensive wool blazer, expensive wool knee-length skirt, and stockings. Too bad she couldn't do anything to encourage him to fix those creepy eyeballs...and cutting them out was _also_ against local municipal laws.) 

Yes, Lauren was settling in beautifully. About time she recorded another installment of her productivity vlog, for all her viewers back home. She switched on her webcam, checked that her hair was perfect (always had to be a good face for the company, after all), and pressed _record_.

Across the hall, Cecil pulled out his phone.

"Dearest perfectest Desert Bluffs besties," chirped Lauren.

"My dear Carlos," began Cecil.

To their respective audiences, they chorused: "You know I'm experienced, years of working in the biz...."

"So I'll cope with our new bosses," added Cecil.

"So of course, I'll smile regardless!" trilled Lauren.

Mutually pretending they hadn't noticed they were doing a duet, they continued: "For I know that's how you'd want me to respond! But: there has been some friction, see, my new co-worker is...."

Lauren paused, struggling for a polite way to put it. "Unusually and exceedingly peculiar and altogether quite impossible to describe...."

All Cecil said was: "Blonde."

Apparently ignoring the duet wasn't going to make it go away. They switched off their devices and got up, striding to the doorways of their respective offices, where they gazed intently into each other's eyes.

"What is this feeling...so sudden and new?" sang Lauren.

"I felt the moment I laid eyes on you," agreed Cecil.

Lauren pressed a hand against her chest. "My pulse is rushing...."

Cecil leaned against the doorframe. "My head is reeling...."

"My face is flushing," squeaked Lauren, before falling back into chorus with Cecil: "What is this feeling? Fervid as a flame: does it have a name?" The music swelled dramatically around them. "Yes...!"

In a single move they stepped forward, breaking from the doorways, standing nearly nose-to-nose in the middle of the hall.

"...loathing!" they half-sang, half-shouted. "Unadulterated loathing!"

"For your eyes," growled Lauren.

"Your smile," hissed Cecil.

"Your clothing!" snapped Lauren, grinning all the while.

"Let's just say — I loathe it all!" they chorused. "Ev'ry little trait, however small makes my very flesh begin to crawl with simple utter loathing! There's a strange exhilaration in such total detestation — it's so pure, so strong! Though I do admit it came on fast, still I do believe that it can last, and I will be loathing, loathing you my whole life long!"

The commotion had caught the attention of some of NVCR's new, less-terrible employees. They gathered around behind Lauren now, in their sensible suits and company-orange ties. "Dearest Lauren, you must be so stressed," they crooned in sympathy, "to supervise someone so profitless! Unproductive, inefficient — can't think why they don't just fire 'im, bring in someone more proficient!"

Modeling a good Strexcorp smile for them, Lauren trilled, "Well: I'm sure that corporate knows best!"

"Poor dear Lauren, forced to abide co-workers with no company pride! We all just want to tell you, we're all on your side! We share your loathing —"

"What is this feeling, so sudden and new?" repeated Cecil and Lauren, now circling each other like angry tigers. (Also, progressing slowly toward the break room. Like angry tigers who needed coffee.) "I felt the moment I laid eyes on you!"

"Unadulterated loathing — for his eyes, his Voice, his clothing —"

The extras (Strextras?) kept the background chorus going while Lauren and Cecil plunged through the now-familiar lyrics, taking the opportunity to be even louder and more vitriolic. "There's a strange exhilaration," they chorused at last, "in such total detestation! So pure, so strong!"

"So strong!"

"Though I do admit it came on fast, still I do believe that it can last! And I will be loathing, for forever loathing, truly deeply loathing you...." Cecil grabbed Lauren's lapel right as Lauren seized a fistful of his...feathery thing. "...my whole life long!"

They let each other go, and Lauren stalked toward the coffee machine first, encouraged by her backup singers: "Loathing, unadulterated loathing!"

Out of nowhere, Cecil popped up on the wrong side of her. "Boo!"

"Eek!" squealed Lauren, jumping about a foot in the air and dumping Strex-brand coffee grounds all over her beautiful, expensive suit.

Smirking, Cecil poured a scoop of his own brand into the machine.

Lauren didn't have to do her own cleaning — that was the whole reason this place had interns, after all — but even so, she was so furious that she almost...frowned.

If only her life could somehow jump-cut straight to the moment she finally got _revenge_ on this man.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

When Cecil came down from the roof, the lights in the building were back on. Lauren and Daniel met him at the door of the booth.

They were smiling.

"If I can just squeak by here?" said Cecil in his most placating voice.

The eyes of his producer and his program director were locked on him as he squeezed inside, replacing the sound board and dropping the pliers back in their drawer. He thought about reconnecting all the wires, then considered how long that would take, and decided just to leave it for morning.

"Well! Now that that's all settled...I hope you two both have a pleasant evening, and I will see you tomorrow...?"

"Oh, we probably won't," said Lauren. "There's no reason you need to come in tomorrow."

Her words didn't scare Cecil as much as they might have. To be honest, he had been expecting them to try something like this for a while now. But his contract predated Strexcorp, it was forged in older magics than anyone now alive could unravel, and it bound him to the station for at least another century (with the option to renew).

"I'm afraid you'll find there is," he told Lauren. "My contact is very clear that management cannot fire me. And even if you could, you cannot cancel the evening news program, which means you would still need me to host it. So let's just agree to put this all behind us and —"

"Oh, don't talk to us about contracts," said Lauren.

All the lights shut off again.

Instead of coming back on normally, a series of brilliant orange-tinted spotlights snapped into life, beaming down on Lauren, Daniel, and Cecil. For Cecil, it was dazzling. Lauren casually examined her nails, not even squinting. Daniel...well, Daniel didn't really blink, so he was unaffected.

The hallway around them seemed much larger than usual, with the spotlights casting all the space around them into cavernous shadows. As Cecil's eyes adjusted, he spotted movement in the smoke and the darkness: a pack of barely-human silhouettes gathering around behind his bosses, identifiable only by the glinting of their shark-teeth.

_Lawyers._

"By the contract, it says..." began the lawyers, a hissing chant all in unison. "Book two, part ten, section fifteen, heading forty, subsection one, paragraph three, sub-paragraph twenty, page two, clause four, subclause thirteen, footnote twenty!" The pace picked up, rapid and breathless: "Book one, part five, section eighteen, heading seven, sub-paragraph thirty-seven, clause eleven, subclause four-B, footnote twenty-six, sub-footnote _one!_ "

Cecil had no idea what those footnotes said, but he was terrified already.

A single French horn rose in the background as Daniel moved smoothly toward him, voice like an oil slick. "So you think, since you're locally famous, all the power in this job lies with you."

"Well, forgive us these smiles on our faces," purred Lauren. "You'll know what power is when we are through...."

Daniel nodded. "You're working for the big boys now."

"Working for the big boys now!" echoed Lauren. "All of our investors —"

"— Guarantee the best! You're working for the big boys now!"

The two of them circled Cecil as they repeated the chorus, making him stumble and twirl to keep his eyes on both. "No, we can't just end you," smirked Daniel.

"But we can suspend you!" added Lauren, and Daniel joined her: "Up to two weeks, starting now! It's too late to renege, boy — you're working for the big boys now!"

In the background, the lawyers started chanting once more. Cecil couldn't possibly watch all their teeth at once. But how could they possibly _replace_ him, even for a suspension, where would they find —

"You're working for the big boys now — you're working for the big boys now!" chanted his supervisors, utterly unbothered. "We can make a transfer from another branch, for an expense that's pre-endowed!"

They had spiraled closer to Cecil now, practically right in his face. Daniel's chassis gleamed. "You put up a front."

Lauren's teeth flashed. "You put up a fight."

"But now we will, with great delight —"

"— exercise our legal right —"

"— to bring a new host around!" Grabbing his arms, they ushered him toward the elevator, harmonizing once more over the hissing of the lawyers: "This isn't just your gig, boy — you're working for the big boys — working with the big boys now!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The radio at Cecil's place really was silent now. Carlos kept checking that it was on, and properly tuned to NVCR, but the only thing he got was static.

In the quiet, all he could hear was one of Cecil's louder neighbors singing across the hall: "Corporate shills are losing, corporate shills are losing, corporate shills are losing...somewhere else! Not here!"

At long last the door opened. Praise the beams, Cecil was still walking free. Didn't even look cut or bruised. Just despondent. And tired.

Carlos couldn't hear any instruments yet, but when he tried to ask how Cecil was, it came out as a croon: "You okay, honey?"

"Suspended, that's all."

Carlos winced. "How are you for money?"

"Fine. Can still pay my bills. They're aiming where it hurts." In a solo of his own, he raised his voice: "Tryin' to take my pride...!"

"Hey, come on inside," soothed Carlos, pulling him in. "You hungry...?"

"Hungry?" echoed Cecil. It cued a hopeful little percussion beat around them: not the opening for a cantata of abject despair. "Indeed...I haven't had the time to eat. Does that mean, Carlos — you're cooking? For me...?"

How could Carlos say no to that face? "Was thinking takeout, but that's fine! I'll cook," he sang quickly, making a turn into the kitchen and taking a look at the spices. "Do we still have black pepper in the cupboard? Wait — I'm thinking about the cupboards at home." He started going through the rest of the pantry, trying to remember what groceries had ended up where. "Do you have garlic, or chrysoberyl, or sea foam?"

Cecil cut him off: "Takeout's fine."

"Great! I'll pour you some wine." Carlos went for a glass. "Try to relax, like you should. Arby's good? I'll call."

Cecil hovered around as he poured. "Do you need the menu?"

"For them? Not at all!" There were some places in town Carlos knew down to the smallest detail, and the Arby's with the lights overhead was one of them. "I've got it memorized, no sweat...!" He handed one filled glass to Cecil, making sure their fingers brushed, then clinked a second against it. "And I'll never forget."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

In the next town over, another scientist and another radio host were having a late-night home visit of their own.

To be fair, it was a pretty different kind of visit. Not the kind that started with loving words of reassurance, moved on to tipsy makeouts, made a brave attempt at getting to third base even though nobody was really awake or sober enough to pass it, and ended when the participants fell asleep on top of each other. As far as Kevin was concerned, it would have been fantastic if any of that _had_ happened!...but there was one teensy problem.

Carlo the Scientist was, tragically, heterosexual.

Of course, Strexcorp had its own patented and trademarked ways to get around a detail like that. Sadly, these processes were expensive, time-consuming, and came with severe and potentially-debilitating psychological side effects...all of which tended to _seriously_ cut into an employee's productivity. The company couldn't be expected to put in all that effort for something as inconsequential as Kevin's love life!

So Kevin had accepted the inevitable, reined in his crush, and settled for trying to get to know Carlo in a platonic way. And it had worked beautifully. They hung out on a regular basis. The security scans at their respective homes had been programmed to recognize each other's bar codes. They were — and Carlo had assured Kevin that this was the scientific term — _BFFs._

Bearing good news, and also a box of fresh ribs, Kevin scanned himself in at Carlo's apartment complex and took the elevator up.

Carlo had already changed for bed, so he answered the door wearing a bedtime lab coat over his orange Strexnap(TM) pajamas. "Hi, Kevin! Gosh, you're here late!"

"I know!" gushed Kevin. "I just found out something so exciting that I absolutely had to tell you in person! Can I come in?"

"Of course! Come on in...." Carlo's smile faltered. "Kevin? You're not bleeding."

"I'm not?" Kevin shifted the box in his arms, freeing up a hand to touch his cheek. Sure enough, the skin was soft and dry. "Oh, wow. I didn't even notice."

Carlo raised his hands. "You want some help with that?"

"Would you? That would be so kind."

"No problem! Hold still." Carlo cupped the sides of Kevin's skull, and slowly slid his thumbs into Kevin's eye sockets. After a few moments of poking, they came out red.

"You are such a good best friend," said Kevin happily. "These are for you, by the way!"

"Thanks." Carlo took the ribs. "Ooh, they're so fresh. Did you disembowel them yourself?"

"Yes! Just this afternoon."

Carlo put the gift on his sticky desk, next to a lamp with hair and sinew draped over the shade. His apartment was smaller than Kevin's, a studio, making the most efficient possible use of the space by not filling it with superfluous walls or doors. It was also drier than Kevin's, with minimal streaks of viscera on the wallpaper, and kitchen appliances made only of _washed_ bone.

"So here's the exciting news," said Kevin. His Strex-brand loafers squished as he followed Carlo in, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind. "You know that cute little town in our greater metropolitan area, the one Strexcorp just recently started taking over? Well, their local radio host just got himself suspended, and guess who just got tapped to fill in?"

"You!" exclaimed Carlo. "I bet they tapped you!"

Kevin clapped his hands. "That's right! And you know what else? They said I would need someone from the science team to go along...you know, to monitor my medications, and to take care of anything that needs to be sterilized after I go on a decorating spree...and I asked if I could bring you, and you know what they said?"

"They said yes?" 

"They said yes!" squealed Kevin. "Tomorrow we're going to Night Vale!"

His delight kicked up even more when an invisible piano started playing. Of course he'd noticed the musical front, but it was hitting pretty lightly in Desert Bluffs. This was going to be his very first number! And when he got to Night Vale, the epicenter of the weather pattern, he would probably get duets and choruses and solos all the time. It was going to be _great_.

"I've always had the hope," he sang dreamily, "that on the day I go to heaven, our Smiling God will shake my hand and say: _You've done an awesome job, Kevin!_ " He turned to Carlo. "Now it's our time to go out...."

"My best friend...!" sang Carlo.

"...and set that town's people free!" Kevin beamed at his BFF. "And we can do it together, you and me...." The music kicked up. "...but _mostly me!_ "

He did a little spin, while Carlo switched on the lamp and angled it to give him his very own spotlight.

"You and me, but mostly me, are gonna change Night Vale forever! 'Cause I can do most anything...."

"...and I can walk after you and mop!" finished Carlo, whipping out a Strexmop(TM) from the kitchenette and swinging it around.

"Every surgeon needs a scrub tech," sang Kevin. "CEOs need their PAs!"

Carlo mimed taking a call. "Yes, sir!"

"And in this financial climate...?" prompted Kevin.

Still in-character, Carlo trilled, "Sure, boss, I don't need a raise!"

He dropped the character, and the mop, as they clasped each other's hands and sang together: "We're seeing eye-to-lack-of-eye! It's so great, we can agree, that our Smiling God has chosen you and me —"

"— just mostly me!" trumpeted Kevin. He sighed as the melody softened, gazing in the direction of the sky. "Something incredible...I'll do something incredible! I'll be the Strex employee that changed all of mankind...!"

"My best friend," crooned Carlo in the background.

"On Night Vale radio, as a host, I know I'll do something incredible...that blows God's freaking mind!" He squeezed Carlo's hand again, as they chorused, "And as long as we stick together...."

With his free hand, Carlo raised the mop. "And I clean up in your wake!"

"Clean in my wake!" echoed Kevin, letting him go to do another triumphant spin.

"We can change the world forever," sang Carlo, sashaying after him to mop up some of his footprints, "and make each day a productive day!"

"Mostly me!"

"Let's quit singing about it —"

"— and do it!" They were in chorus again. "How ready and psyched are we? Life is about to change for you, and life is about to change for me, and life is about to change for you and me —"

"— but me, mostly!" soloed Kevin. He threw an arm around Carlo's shoulder. "And there's no limit to what we can do: me and you."

Carlo nodded, slung an arm around him in turn, and beckoned for him to finish the thought.

This was why they were BFFs. Kevin's mouth split wide open in a toothy, glistening grin. They were going to have the _awesomest_ time in Night Vale. "...but mostly me!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment when you finally realize who should sing "What Is This Feeling?" with Cecil...and that, chronologically, it should have happened about five chapters ago. Oh well, that's what flashbacks are for.
> 
> Today's songs to the tune of "[What Is This Feeling?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Onk6a6qGHI)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/wicked/whatisthisfeeling.htm)) from _Wicked_ , "[Playing With The Big Boys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxyOTFQFWQ0)" ([lyrics](http://www.metrolyrics.com/playing-with-the-big-boys-lyrics-steve-martin-martin-short.html?ModPagespeed=noscript)) from _Prince of Egypt_ (as suggested — just in time! — by gwen-chan), "[You Okay Honey?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3THmR5SGQU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/rent/youokayhoney.htm)) from _RENT_ , and "[You And Me (But Mostly Me)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MEQ7KmpsBk)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/bookofmormonthe/youandmebutmostlyme.htm)) from _The Book of Mormon_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Close every door to me, keep those I love from me — children of Night Vale are never alone!_


	10. Act I, tracks 34-37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin gets his big intro song to Night Vale (too bad he doesn't get any lines in it). The Man in the Tan Jacket gets a solo about what an awesome spy he is. And out in the otherworldly desert, Dana makes friends...and backup singers.

The crowd in front of the City Hall steps was full of excited chatter and cameras going off, even though the press conference hadn't started yet. There wasn't even anybody at the podium except a friendly placeholder scorpion.

Leann Hart didn't bother to hide a smirk. These bloggers were so proud of their up-to-the-second Pinstagramming skills, but what were their followers really getting out of it? Just artistically-filtered images of banners with the Strexcorp logo, a bunch of unoccupied microphones, and the half-deflated balloons from Mayor Winchell's press conference the night before about petting an adorable ferret.

The news, whenever it arrived, was going to be serious. And since it was about NVCR, the _Night Vale Daily Journal_ — as the only other legitimate, non-Strex-owned news outlet in town — was going to be the only place able to cover it objectively.

(Although Leann was objectively sure that Strexcorp's business decisions were financially-savvy, good for consumers, and good for stockholders. And this view had nothing to do with the regular full-page ads the _Journal_ was now selling for Strex products.)

The chatter around her picked up as Lauren Mallard, from NVCR's management team, emerged from a broken window in the basement level of City Hall and crawled to the podium. She was carrying a nightstick, which she used to smash the placeholder scorpion and whack its remains out of the way. Leann smiled, giving her axe handle an appreciative squeeze. You had to admire a woman with determination.

"Ahem!" Lauren flashed a 200-watt smile into the microphones. "Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted beings of the press, it's an honor to have you join us this morning to meet the new host of NVCR."

"Temporary host!" yelled someone in the crowd.

Leann gnashed her teeth. Troublemaker. Probably doing it for the Vine.

Up at the podium, the blonde's smile only grew wider. "Of course, he won't be the host _forever_. But he's the host _now_ , and _now_ is what counts in the news business! So let's all give Kevin a warm, friendly, strangely-bloodless Night Vale welcome."

Another figure was crawling out of City Hall, pushing aside balloons and ragged drapery. It was just Daniel, another member of Strex's NVCR management team...but once he was out on the pavement, he turned to help someone else come up behind.

The excitement in the crowd reached a fever pitch. "He's coming! He's coming!" cried people around Leann, all of whom were wearing stylish orange triangle pins. "Our substitute host is coming!"

Daniel led the new man up to the podium, and Leann did a quiet double-take. He looked exactly like Cecil — except for the short, professional haircut. And the way his tie was shredded. And the whole...no-eyes...thing.

Shaking it off, she let the new arrival get to the podium, then threw her first softball of the morning. "Hey Kevin, how about answering a few questions? How do you feel about working in Night Vale?"

Grinning brightly, Kevin opened his mouth to answer...then Daniel stepped in front of him with a carefully-programmed warm chuckle. "How does he feel? You ask how he feels? He's much too shy to tell you, so I'll tell you how he feels."

As the sound of a brass band started up around them, he sang:

"He feels: brave and eager, strangely humble, proud to work and keen to please!"

"He can't wait to meet the locals," added Lauren, "on behalf of our trustees!"

The triangle-pin-wearing members of the crowd broke into spontaneous chorus: "For he's a fine, hard-working, patriotic, healthy, normal Strexcorp employee!"

Daniel nodded. "And that's why, when Cecil's on vacation...."

"Vacation? I thought he was suspended!" piped up someone who was clearly _not_ worried about antagonizing the competition.

"And you laughed while you threw him out!" added another. _Bloggers._

"Sing," said Lauren from the podium, glaring at the crowd.

Again with the spontaneous chorus, from fresh-faced, attractive young people swaying back and forth. "We love you Kevin! Oh yes we do! We love you Kevin, and we'll be true! When you're not near us, we're blue — oh, Kevin, we love you!"

Daniel clapped. "Very nice!"

Still, the bloggers had obviously not gotten the message. "Say, what's the deal with that maniacal smile, Kevin?" asked the second one. "Any chance you're deranged?"

It was Lauren's turn to chortle. "Is he deranged? Is Kevin deranged? There's absolutely nothing to the rumor he's deranged."

"He's excited, full of fervor, glad to have you folks around," crooned Daniel, clapping Kevin heartily on the back. "And if you can't understand that...maybe you don't love your town?"

The group of bright-eyed, photogenic, clearly-impartial audience members chimed in once more. Leann was nearly deafened as she wove her way through them. "For he's a fine, hard-working, patriotic, healthy, normal Strexcorp employee!"

The first blogger frowned and raised her hand again. "So why is he covered in blood?"

"Sing," directed Daniel.

"We love you Kevin! Oh yes we do! We love you Kevin, and we'll be true!"

"Hey Ms. Mallard, give us a scoop," called the second blogger to Lauren. "Is Kevin deliberately mis-medicated?"

By now Leann had worked her way over to the seat beside him, and diplomatically stomped on his foot. While he was hissing in pain and hopping around, she stole his phone. No more tumbling _his_ scoops to the tweeter before the _Journal_ made it to press!

Kevin opened his mouth to answer, but Lauren put a comforting arm around him, and in the process shoved him aside so she was in front of the microphone. "Now listen here! This gossip is cruel," she snapped. "He's on a healthy dosage, Strex-developed and retooled!"

"He's efficient as machinery," crooned Daniel.

"He's as happy as can be," warbled Lauren. "He's excited to work overtime...and he'll decorate for free!"

"For he's a fine, hard-working, patriotic, healthy, normal Strexcorp employee!"

Unfortunately, Leann didn't have a chance to sabotage that first nosy blogger before she, too, called out another rude and antagonistic question. "Is it true that you grew Kevin in a laboratory?"

Identical looks of shock and horror bloomed on Lauren and Daniel's faces. "That's a lie! A lie through and through," they chanted as one, crowding up to the mic and pushing Kevin almost entirely out of sight behind them. "I'll tell you where he came from, here's the story and it's true."

"He was born in California," began Lauren.

"He was born in eastern China," added Daniel...in perfect harmony with Lauren's notes, if not necessarily her words.

"Son of startup partners there," continued Lauren.

"To a foreign CEO," crooned Daniel.

"Sold the company for millions — paid cross-country travel fares —"

"When the bubble burst in '90, assets overseas were sold —"

Lauren was making sweeping gestures with her hands, invoking the idea of a jet-setting tourist trip across different states, time zones, and target markets. "First on planes, then trains, he traveled the American Southwest —"

Daniel, meanwhile, was clasping his hands to his heart, so moved by the financial tragedy in his version of Kevin's past. "With the market left in pieces, they moved back to the US —"

"Bought a Strexcorp car in Utah..."

"Got their son a Strexcorp sales job..."

"...and fate took care of the rest!" finished Lauren triumphantly.

Daniel was, musically, right on her heels. "...and I'm sure you know the rest!"

They stepped aside, pulling Kevin roughly forward, and plunged without missing a beat into the national anthem. Kevin looked like he didn't know whether to join in or just aim a gracious smile at the audience members who were singing his praises once more. His supervisors were swaying back and forth now too, so he rocked along with them, eyelids blinking in mild bewilderment over his empty eye sockets.

Leann, determined not to have her news shown up as un-American, tried to join in with America The Beautiful. She made it about a line before Lauren and Daniel dropped it, adding their voices to the crowd. Giving up, Leann settled for hastily transcribing what all of them were saying: "...for he's a fine, hard-working, sane and modest, patriotic, healthy, normal Strexcorp employee!"

Was it true? Who knew? The modern news cycle went fast, and fact-checking was a luxury Leann didn't have the time or the employees to indulge in. But lots of people were _saying_ it was true, and popular opinion still counted as something you could report, just as much as facts, original research, and pasteurized milk.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"Y'know, I'm jealous of you," said Vithya, hovering next to Dana's makeshift camp at the edge of the tree line. "You get back to NVCC, they'll let you pick up where you left off, yeah? Me, all my records got wiped right out. Be a felony or something to keep 'em around, now, what with my _municipal non-existence_ or whatever. But you! You've just gone and got trapped in another plane of space and time. They 'ave paperwork for that."

As usual, Dana didn't answer, because Dana couldn't see or hear her. Vithya had been following her fellow former-intern for days now, trying to find a way to break into Dana's perceptions. No luck yet.

"Might even just let you graduate," sighed Vithya, tossing her halo idly into the air. "You were in the year above me, right? Only had a month and exams to go. And you've got mad extracurriculars by now."

Dana got up, did some stretches, checked her phone (97% battery, no new messages), and started making her way up the side of the mountain once more.

Vithya grabbed her halo, spread her filmy golden wings, and buzzed along at Dana's side. "Bet you anything there's a wilderness-exploration course you could place out of. Ooh, and an exploring-forbidden-things course! Forget what they're listing that as on the transcripts now. Printmaking or Kantian philosophy or somethin'."

On they went like that, for what was probably a couple of hours. Time blurred together even more than usual when you were ascended. The clock on Dana's phone was mostly accurate, but it had started showing the time in Roman numerals, and Vithya never learned those.

She was about as shocked as Dana when the unforgiving slope suddenly became the peak.

"Guess that's where the light's from," said Vithya as Dana wandered around the base of a brown stone lighthouse.

"It's strange," said Dana out loud. "Normally a lighthouse is placed on a coastline, so the light can warn the ships. But there is no coastline around here. And if there are any ships, I have not seen them."

"Maybe it used to be a coast," said Vithya. Pretending Dana's offhand comments were addressed to her was the closest thing she had to interaction these days. "Maybe that whole desert plain was an ocean, right? And this mountain here was an island. And the people who lived in that ruin over there, they were islanders."

A few minutes later, Dana noticed the ruin: a few half-toppled buildings and a lot of empty stone foundations, in the relative shelter of a rocky gorge that made up the top of the mountain. "Were there people living here once?" she wondered.

Vithya trailed her down the edge of the gorge. "Yeah. Islanders. See, if you listened to me you would know this sort of thing."

The stone had a weird architecture setup going on. You couldn't see it real well from the ground, but when Vithya soared briefly into the air, she was sure of it: Dana had fallen into the path of some kind of spiral. With a geometric motif. Apparently the missing past maybe-islanders had a real thing for orange triangles.

She landed at Dana's side again.

Even though they were in a shadowed part of the gorge, Dana was squinting as she walked. Like she was seeing something that hurt her eyes.

Vithya waved a hand in front of her face. "Oi, Dana! Earth to Dana. You still with us?"

Obviously Dana didn't respond...but her non-response felt different this time. Weirder. More sinister. Angels had good instincts for this sort of thing.

"C'mon, Dana, say somethin' dreamy an' random so I know you're all right."

Nothing. Nothing but grimacing and pained staring and slow, inexorable walking.

Right. Vithya had to get herself noticed, _now_.

The only thing she hadn't tried was the bright-black-beam-of-light trick. And she was just a baby angel. She shouldn't be able to _do_ the bright-black-beam-of-light trick. On the other hand, this would be the perfect time for a dramatic reveal, and her hometown was going through a musical front, so timing was important. If she could do it to song....

Like that mournful piano tune, right there. That would do it.

"Lost in the ruin," sang Vithya softly, backing toward the entrance of the spiral. "Triangles surround you. Once, people lived here...they've gone away."

As she sang, the music swelled...and so did a beam of pure darkness, glowing around her, bright and blinding. Dana stopped walking.

"Don't think they meant to," continued Vithya, burning with righteousness on behalf of the long-gone settlers. "I think someone took them. I think they were victims of some foul play...!"

Shivering through the crescendo, Dana turned, and started following her out.

Soft again, Vithya beckoned her onward. "Please try to hear me — watch and stay near me. Come out of the spiral, where you'll be all right. You don't know I'm here, but I'll never desert you. I promise you this: I won't give up the fight...."

With one final frisson of instrumentality, Dana threw herself out of the spiral's mouth, scraping her knees as she landed on the rock and rubbing her aching eyes.

"I had forgotten," she whispered. (Vithya ducked close to hear.) "I had forgotten there was anything outside the spiral...."

Still massaging her brows, she raised her head.

"Is somebody there...?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The security guard on the first floor of the north wing of the Strexcorp Science Tower, 310 Smiling God Plaza, Desert Bluffs, frowned at the man standing in front of her blood-streaked desk. "Sir, are you authorized to be in here?"

"No," said the man pleasantly. Then, with a start, he looked off to the left. "What's that?"

The guard looked.

When she turned back, there was nobody in front of her. What had happened to the man she was talking to? She _had_ been talking to someone, right? With a briefcase, and a tan jacket, and...probably a head...a normal number of limbs...had that happened here? Or had she seen him somewhere else? Was it just now? Maybe it was earlier this morning. Or last week.

... _what_ was last week? She couldn't remember.

Oh well. The guard shrugged and went back to work. If whatever-it-was had happened somewhere in the vicinity of 310 Smiling God Plaza, or any other building in downtown Desert Bluffs, the security cameras would have caught it.

"That's the story of my life," sighed the Man in the Tan Jacket, as he walked right past those same cameras and let himself onto the elevator. "Nobody knows I'm around. Not even my own family."

He didn't press any buttons, just tapped his feet and waited for someone else to get on.

The chirpy elevator music was suddenly overridden with a more mournful tune. As it picked up, the man started to sing along. "If someone begged the Brownstone Spire to set their neighbor's house afire, and tangoed through the burning lawn...you'd notice him."

A Strex employee in a white coat got on the elevator and hit the button for the 19th floor. The elevator didn't move until he turned around and let it scan the bar code on the back of his neck, identifying him as someone with the right security clearance.

"If someone on the radio yelled, _No more censors on my show! The battle lines have now been drawn!_...you'd notice him."

Ignoring his companion in the elevator, the Strex scientist began making notes on a tablet with an electronic pen. It looked enough like a standard writing utensil that if this had been Night Vale, he would've been tackled immediately.

"And even without whipping out a pen," lamented the Man in the Tan Jacket, "everyone gets noticed, now and then. Unless, of course, that personage should be...a person with the curse that lies on me!"

A short ride later, and he was strolling down a high-security hallway, the music following him along.

"Cellophane — Mister Cellophane — shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane. 'Cause you can talk right to me, but then look through me, and just forget I'm there."

He found a door labeled RECORDS, waited outside until another Strex employee came by to scan herself through, then shuffle-stepped in after her.

"Suppose you was a station cat," he remarked, falling in line beside her as they walked between the climate-controlled metal shelves, "and interns brought you milk and rats, and brushed your spines and scratched your ears? You'd notice them."

Just as she was starting to look suspicious, he ducked to one side and headed down an aisle. Her interest faded almost instantly once he was out of sight.

The Man in the Tan Jacket kept singing to himself as he trailed his fingers along the labels of the acid-free grey boxes, until he found the string of numbers and letters he was looking for. "Suppose you was a Councillor, and had to fight off protestors with mallets, each election year? You'd notice them."

He hefted the box off the shelf.

Someone _would_ notice, eventually, if the hard copies of these records went missing. No problem. In a flash of montage time, he was standing next to a photocopier, watching it spit out paper and tipping his hat to the eyeless office drones who wandered by.

"A human being's made of more than air," he sang, opening his briefcase and shooing some of the flies aside to fit the paper in underneath them. They buzzed in friendly confusion as they crawled over words like CLASSIFIED PROJECT and STREXCORP PHARMACEUTICALS PATENT # and KEVIN. "With all that bulk, you're bound to see him there. Unless that human bein' next to you is unremembered, cursed, tormented you-know-who...!"

Still unnoticed, he sauntered back to the front lobby. For all the grief his condition had brought him over the years, it was moments like this — pulling off an important reconnaissance mission like it was nothing more than a trip to the Ralph's for some bread and orange milk — that made it all worth it.

"Cellophane — Mister Cellophane!" He belted it out as he waved to the guard, a bounce in his step and a swing in his hips. "Shoulda been my name, Mister Cellophane! 'Cause you can talk right to me, but then look through me, and just forget I'm there. Totally forget I'm there!"

On the street, under the blazing sunlight, he tipped his hat to the giant Strexcorp logo plastered across the building and flashed a teeth-baring grin.

"Hope I didn't take up too much of your time."

The sun glinted off the orange triangle. It would probably never figure out the Man in the Tan Jacket had been there. But when the consequences started coming in, it sure would feel them.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Dana had climbed the mountain and found the blinking light, and nothing had come of it. All she had done was get herself lost in an eyesore (literally) of a ruined settlement. Maybe her journey didn't have any kind of purpose. Maybe she was no longer connected to Night Vale.

Maybe she would never make it home.

As she descended the far side of the mountain, she could see the strange, warlike masked army that had been lurking in the distance. They seemed much closer now. And if she had thought they were large before, well, now they looked _very_ large.

How long would it have to be before her friends and family gave up on her? Before she was officially declared "dead for all practical municipal purposes," given the traditional intern memorial plaque in the NVCR break room, and put on the list of eligible names in the annual Thanksgiving Day Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest?

Closer to the ground than to the peak now, Dana wandered to the tip of one of the mountain's sharp, rocky outcrops, and found a nice vantage point to have a seat. From here she could just pick out the old oak door she had found freestanding in the sand, a speck in the distance.

She could also pick out a light on the horizon. It reminded her of the light she had seen in the spiral, the soft painful glow around the orange triangles.

"But there was another light," she said out loud. "A bright, black light. Someone came to rescue me. I'm sure of it."

She looked all around her once more, looking once again for some sign of her rescuer. Mountain, light, desert, door, army. All the usual sights, none of them home.

"Perhaps my rescuer is no longer here," she mused, kicking her heels against the rocky ledge. "Or, if they are here, perhaps they don't want to show themselves. Or, if they want to show themselves, perhaps they are not able to. But someone is here. Night Vale is helping me. Because Night Vale still needs my hope."

A couple of ominous stringed instruments echoed off the rock face.

"Close every door to me," sang Dana. "Hide my own world from me. Lock me in this world, trapped under the light...."

She looked from the shattering brilliance on the horizon to the blinking red light high above, warning people away from the ruins and the spiral.

"Set ancient traps for me," she continued. "Hurt me and laugh at me; blind me in daytime and burn through my night. If my journey was just for me, I'd ask to be home and free...but I know my purpose is more in this world! Close every door to me, keep those I love from me — children of Night Vale are never alone! For I know I shall find my own peace of mind, as long as I fight for a town of my own!"

She hadn't realized she had an audience until an eerie, childlike chorus started echoing her lines back to her: "Close every door to me, hide my own world from me. Lock me in this world, trapped under the light...."

It was the masked army. They were gathering below her, _directly_ below, chanting in harmony and listening with interest. Dana could feel down to her bones that they were touched by her experience, by how much she had survived.

And they wanted to know more.

"Just give me a break room floor plaque with my name," implored Dana. "Forget all about me, while I'm far away. I do not matter — I'm only one person — what matters is keeping my dear hometown safe!"

She got to her feet, voice swelling with passion.

"If my journey was just for me, I'd ask to be home and free — but I know my purpose is more in this world!"

Drums pounded, cymbals crashed, and the masked army joined in her song: "Close every door to me — keep those I love from me — children of Night Vale are never alone! For we know we shall find our own peace of mind, as long as we fight for a town of our own!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Healthy, Normal American Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bls_2aPAdKw)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/byebyebirdie/healthynormalamericanboy.htm)) from _Bye Bye Birdie_ , "[Lost In The Darkness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b1HwpyQPE14)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/jekyllhyde/lostinthedarkness.htm)) from _Jekyll & Hyde_, "[Mr. Cellophane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8rVduc2svzU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/chicago/mrcellophane.htm)) from _Chicago_ (by popular demand! Poetry, Gen, and thatguywiththewhitespot all suggested it), and "[Close Every Door](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVWpgmiIbas)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/josephandtheamazingtechnicolordreamcoat/closeeverydoor.htm)) from _Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Even now that you're the Voice, you will always be my / Little brother_


	11. Act I, tracks 38-40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil's suspension is getting him down (and Carlos isn't always as supportive as he might be). Kevin's new role is just making him even more gosh-darn happy than ever. Maybe Kevin and his friends can cheer Cecil up with the power of song?
> 
> Heads-up for typical Desert Bluffs gore.

On the first day of his enforced suspension, Cecil slept in late, cleaned every room in his apartment, went bowling (by himself, since Old Woman Josie was still missing and everyone else was at work), and sat in Big Rico's listening to Kevin (that _monster_ ) host his show ( _his_ show!) while he waited for Carlos to finish doing science for the evening.

On the second day of his enforced suspension, Cecil watched half the movies in his Netflix queue. When his show started, he stayed away from anywhere that might be playing a radio.

On the third day, Carlos took the day off too, saying that he couldn't miss too much work, but he wanted to try to take Cecil's mind off of things as much as he was able. It helped.

On the fourth day, Cecil watched the other half of the movies in his Netflix queue.

On the fifth day, he implored Carlos to take time off again. These were emergency conditions, after all. And surely he could make it more enticing for Carlos to stay around. For instance, this metal-studded leather outfit that had spontaneously appeared in his closet during the last full moon — didn't that catch Carlos's attention at all?

Carlos said it did, and he would certainly do a scan with his Geiger counter and his danger meter. But he was in the middle of trying to figure out how all the iceberg lettuce at Jerry's Tacos had become magnetized, and he had promised Rochelle he would help with her tests on a line of man-eating flip-flops, which was indispensably a two-person job (you couldn't take sole and fabric samples unless someone else was subduing the flip-flops for you), and in short, unless it was actively irradiating someone, skimpy leather science would simply have to wait until he was done with all his other science for the day.

Cecil had never been so disappointed to have something not be radioactive in his life.

Left alone, and with nothing on TV, he wandered down to the White Sand and ordered three scoops of mango-cadmium with butterscotch sauce. Lucy looked him up and down, and hummed in interest. "You look awfully dressed-up. What's the occasion?"

She clicked her brightly-painted nails against the glass covering the ice cream bins, spelling out the Morse for out ALL OK?

NP, TY, tapped Cecil in response. Of course he was feeling down, but not for any of the reasons Lucy was asking about. Out loud, he said, "I'm here to drown my sorrows in ice cream, and make out with Carlos. And I'm all out of Carlos."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

On his fifth day of substitute hosting in Night Vale, Kevin was having just about the greatest day _ever_.

"Every day is the greatest day ever, these days," he gushed to Carlo after pre-taping that afternoon's Desert Bluffs show, as they rode in a Strexcab(TM) to Night Vale. "Radio is one of my favorite things in the _world_ , next to sunshine and baby raccoons and the Smiling God, and now I get to do twice as much of it!"

"These are some great days for me too," said Carlo brightly. "Because you're happy. And that makes me happy!"

Kevin was so moved, he had to give Carlo a hug.

Maybe he was a little too enthusiastic, because Carlo fell over and had to lie still for a while. He landed in Kevin's lap, and he had told Kevin once that it was okay to play with his hair when that happened, so Kevin twirled his fingers in Carlo's short curls — taking extra care to be gentle. He knew (now) that if he tousled it too casually, it tended to fall out.

It was a gorgeous day outside the windows of the Strexcab(TM), golden light pouring across the sand wastes, fluffy white clouds ambling through the sky like baby sheep. As the thin silhouette of the Night Vale skyline appeared on the horizon, why, Kevin was so excited...he felt a ballad coming on.

(It almost made up for the fact that his Night Vale supervisors had taken all the lines in his very own intro song.)

"I've been thinking a lot about meadows! I've been thinking a lot about meadows," he trilled. "The sun is so bright, it's the happiest sight, and it fills me right up with productive delight...!"

Carlo drifted back to consciousness, blinking up at him in mild confusion.

"Oh, what a good perfect morning — oh, what a good perfect day!" Kevin serenaded him. "I've got a good perfect feeling, everything's going my way!"

He signaled for the Strexcab(TM) to stop early, letting them out across from the park. Not the dog park, where the poor dogs and their humans weren't even allowed to go, but Mission Grove Park, which had plenty of Night Vale locals with their kids and dogs and spiderwolves and phones and Bluetooth headsets and everything. (At least, Kevin thought those were Bluetooth headsets. He'd never seen any without real teeth before.)

"All the people are watching, not smiling...at least, I don't think that that's smiling," sang Kevin, a little confused himself as he and Carlo headed down the sidewalk. "They're strange and imperfect in our sister town...but our own Smiling God sure could turn that around! Oh, what a good perfect morning — oh, what a good perfect day! I've got a good perfect feeling, everything's going my way!"

Soon enough the little detour was over, and they emerged onto a street a couple of blocks down from the station. So many stores, and restaurants, and people buying things!

"All the sounds of commerce are like music! Mass-produced and commercialized music. And the city can't take any tax off the top if most of the locals don't own their own shops! Oh, what a good perfect morning...oh, what a good perfect day! I've got a good perfect feeling everything's going my way!"

The only downside was that not _all_ of the businesses were owned by Strexcorp. At least...not yet. One day, they'd get there! Kevin had faith.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Cecil was just settling into a lime-cardboard smoothie with extra whipped cream when the bell over the White Sand's entrance jingled, and _he_ walked in.

Kevin. Horrible, bouncy, toothy, enthusiastic, blood-spattered Kevin. In the company of someone in a lab coat, which worried Cecil at first, until he discerned that it wasn't Carlos or any of the other scientists on the Night Vale team. Good. Cecil didn't have to stage a rescue mission; he could sit here at the counter and pretend he wasn't here until they went away.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Kevin. "Carlo, I think that's Cecil!"

Dammit.

"It is!" chirped Kevin, pulling his lab-coat-wearing companion over to the counter. The tall stools meant Cecil was still at their eye level (or lack thereof, in Kevin's case), even sitting down. "Carlo, this is my Night Vale counterpart! I used to think he was my Sandstorm double, because I first met him during that big sandstorm, and even though he didn't appear the same way all the other doubles did, we look exactly alike! Isn't that neat?"

"We do not look exactly alike!" snapped Cecil. "You're an eyeless, dead-hearted monster. And you have a stupid haircut."

"He's such a kidder," said Kevin to Carlo. "And Cecil, this is Carlo! He only came to Desert Bluffs a year and a half ago, so technically he's an Outsider, but he works for Strexcorp now, so we think of him as practically one of our own."

In spite of himself, Cecil gave Carlo a curious look. Another outsider scientist? He even looked a bit like Carlos, if you imagined a Carlos who was white...and had solid-black eyes...and someone had shorn off most of his perfect hair...and...."Why is his neck all bruised?"

Kevin looked distressed. "Don't you ever hug _your_ science friend? Does he not like hugs?"

Cecil pulled back with a shudder. He didn't want Kevin's idea of "hugs" even going in the same _sentence_ as Carlos.

"Physical contact is important for humans to maintain a good mood and energy level," added Carlo. "And, come to think of it, you look a little down."

"You sure do," agreed Kevin. "Is anything wrong? Maybe we can help!"

"I may not be having the greatest week ever," admitted Cecil. "But I can tell for a fact that having you two around is not going to solve any of my problems."

Kevin grinned. It looked like his whole face was on the verge of ripping in two. "Oh, I don't know about that!"

A shimmery opening chord kicked in. Oh, no. Cecil was going to be irrevocably trapped with them for an entire musical number...unless he got lucky, and sneaking out was included in the choreography.

"I got a feeling, that you could be feeling a whole lot better then you feel today," trilled Kevin. "You say you got a problem, well that's no problem — it's super easy not to feel that way. When you start to get confused because of thoughts in your head? Stop, and install some better thoughts instead!"

He knocked the side of his hand against Cecil's head, like a last-resort attempt to get a malfunctioning radio back in tune.

"Throw it out! Get an upgrade, with one click. It's a cool little Strexcorp trick! We do it all the time: when you're feeling certain feelings, and cannot bear to smile, treat those feelings like a phone that's fallen out of style, and throw 'em out! Get a new set that feels nice...at the Strex competitive price! Throw it out!"

"Throw it out!" sang Carlo along with him, then jumped into a solo of his own. "When I first got to town, everything brought me down. Didn't think monopolies were fair to build. And all the smiling, I wasn't buying, when startups, oh, and people were so frequently killed."

For a couple of lines, the peppy beat settled into something more contemplative:

"They brought me downtown, and said, don't you panic." Carlo tapped his temple. "We get this bug a lot in units all-organic...."

"Throw it out!" burst out a whole chorus. Along with Kevin and Carlo, half a dozen of the White Sand's other customers were now swaying to the rhythm, all wearing eerily color-coordinated outfits. (At least the Night Vale citizens were mostly wearing clothes with red trim or accents, not actual bloodstains.) "Get an upgrade, with one click. It's our nifty little Strexcorp trick! Throw it out. Throw — it — out!"

While Carlo and the customers hummed a background harmony, Kevin took the lead again:

"Vanessa is an intern, and such a kidder: she always has a joke to start the day. And when I was called to this Night Vale job, she wished me luck in just the nicest way!"

He broke into a wistful smile as the music slowed again.

"I'll tell her about you at the office tomorrow. She died, oh, years ago, but when that brings me sorrow...."

"...I throw it out!" chirped the chorus. "Bid those sad feelings adieu!"

Kevin clapped Cecil on the shoulder and gave him a jovial shake. (It was probably going to bruise.) "I know she'll love to hear about you!"

The backup singers circled around him for the next verse. Lights dimmed behind them, the far corners of the White Sand cast into shadow, as they sang along under their breaths like a choir.

"I really don't recall much farther back at all," sang Kevin, half to himself now, facing off into the distance. "Not sure about my childhood or family. I can't exactly miss it, but sometimes I just wish it could have some kind of presence in my memory. It isn't productive, it's just distracting when I wonder if my past might have something lacking...."

He caught himself with a start.

"Whoa! Throw it out, get an upgrade!" He grinned. "There, it's gone!"

Carlo clapped. "Good for you!"

"My good-employee side won!" chanted Kevin. "I'm all better now."

"We all have the future, and it's ours to share," sang Carlo. "Don't think about the past; there's nothing useful there. Throw it out!"

And now some teeny tiny part of Cecil was feeling concerned about _Kevin_. Everyone deserved to know where they came from, and to have memories of their family. "Well, Kevin, I think it's healthy if you're feeling upset," he protested. "That's normal, if you've lost something."

In an instant, Kevin had rounded on his counterpart, jabbing a finger at Cecil's face. "No! Why waste feeling on something that's gone? It'll slow you down every day —"

"Each day!" chimed in the customers.

"— you can't be productive that way!"

"No way!"

"There's more to life —" began Cecil.

Kevin cut him off. "Working under Strex, we've all been so blessed: if anything stops you from doing your best —"

"— you throw it out!" sang the whole crowd.

Obviously Cecil wasn't going to get anywhere with this. He watched them break into a dance routine on the suddenly-cleared ice-cream-parlor floor, waiting in grim silence for it to be over, so he could go find an establishment with a liquor license and drink to forget.

At last Kevin broke from the dancers and plopped himself down on the stool next to Cecil's. "You feeling better yet?" he asked brightly.

"Nope."

The blood-soaked imposter host only smiled wider. "There's a product that can help, I bet!" he cooed. "You want a catalog? Strex makes a whole selection of mood enhancers. And I can guarantee —"

— the grin _literally_ ripped into his cheeks, oh dear beams that was _gross_ —

"— you'll LOVE IT! Like me!"

"My mood does _not_ need any Strex enhancement!" squeaked Cecil, trying to sound firm and commanding and not at all terrified.

"All right!" squealed Kevin, getting entirely the wrong message. "It worked!"

Cheers went up as he grabbed Cecil's hands and dragged him away from the counter. The next thing Cecil knew they were both out on the floor, tap-dancing in the center of a group singing Strexcorp's praises. "When you're sad or having doubts, or things just don't seem right, don't settle for a system lagged with pain and fright! Throw it out! There's an upgrade to spring for!" They spun Cecil from one person to the next, starting with Kevin and ending with Carlo. "Now he isn't sad anymore! Throw it, throw it, throw it, throw it out!"

Cecil yanked himself out of Carlo's arms the second the last chord faded, and looked down at himself in dismay. New plan: he was still going drinking, but not until after he got a long, hot shower. And maybe burned this outfit.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Carlos wasn't sure of Cecil's plans for the afternoon, so he didn't try to track Cecil down, just went to the house and waited for his boyfriend to turn up. He was looking up a series of chemical compositions when Cecil let himself in. "Cecil, there you are! How was your day?"

"Big dance number down at the White Sand," said Cecil. Maybe the dancing was why he sounded so tired. "How was work?"

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Carlos got off the couch and went to greet him, feet shuffling against the carpet. "You see, I was discussing some things earlier. At the lab. With my scientists. As we do. And I happened to mention your suggestions from this morning."

That perked Cecil up. "Oh? What did they say?"

Carlos did a quick look around before he answered. Fortunately, all his housemates were in the shower, or in their rooms, or out for the evening. "Well, Rochelle did that thing where she suddenly gets a cough, even though there are no irritants in the air. And Dave came over and looked at me the way he does when he's trying to figure out if someone's joking. And Li Hua started laughing, and said, _don't tell him, guys, it'll be so much more hilarious if you don't._ "

"Ah," said Cecil. "So...did they tell you?"

"Yes, Cecil. They know when not to listen to the high-functioning sociopath."

(Having a teammate with the inability to feel empathy was surprisingly useful for surviving in Night Vale. As long as you got used to the fact that Li Hua would support you only as far as she had to to keep her job, and, the rest of the time, tease you as much as she could get away with. And since by now her casual ruthlessness had saved all their lives at least once, there was a _lot_ she could get away with.)

"Long story short...they had a theory that when you suggested I would be interested in a skimpy leather outfit, you did _not_ mean I might want to do things like 'test various flammable liquids on the leather to see if it ignites'."

"Um." Cecil fidgeted. "That is admittedly not my kink, but if it's something you want to try...."

Carlos blushed. "Not what I was getting at!"

"Oh," said Cecil. "Well. Then, yes, it does sound like your colleagues understood what I was aiming for."

Sometimes Carlos really wished Cecil would stop relying on innuendo and be more direct about these things. For a moment he was even glad Cecil was off the air right now, because it meant he didn't have to find out what he missed from hearing Cecil complain about it that afternoon on the radio.

...and that was a mean, selfish thought, so Carlos swallowed his complaints and pulled Cecil close instead, looping his arms around Cecil's waist. "I'm really sorry I didn't catch what you meant. Maybe now that you're here, you could walk me through it in person?"

Cecil cuddled against him. "Mmm, Carlos, that's very thoughtful...and at any other time I would love to give you a demonstration...but right now I've just had a drink or three, and most of what I've had to eat today was ice cream, so I'm a little queasy and wobbly and would rather just put a movie on and cuddle? If that's okay?"

"Oh! Sure, that's fine too." Letting him go, Carlos found the TV remote (the new one, which his housemates had made him buy after he cannibalized the old one's circuits to invent a more effective bookshelf) and navigated to Netflix. "Anything you want to watch?"

"Mmmnope." Cecil flopped down on the couch cushions. "You pick."

Carlos took a seat beside him, and arranged their bodies so Cecil's head was resting in his lap, in an ideal position for hair-petting. "Well, there's this new documentary about the Higgs boson that I've been planning to check out...."

"Perfect!" said Cecil, nuzzling against his thigh. "That'll be great for helping me fall asleep."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Halfway through his enforced suspension, Cecil was sitting on a bench in Mission Grove Park, watching people play frisbee with their double wolves and secret terriers, when someone blocked his view.

"Cecil. I need you to come with me."

"What?" said Cecil. "Where? Why me? And don't you ever get overheated, wearing that tan jacket at noon in the middle of a desert?"

"All the time," said the Man in the Tan Jacket. "But wearing it is the only way I can get people to retain even a vague impression of my existence. There is something I need to give you, and I need to do it as securely as possible. Come with me to the middle of the park and stand in the bloodstone circle, and I'll explain as much as I can."

Cecil was still pretty wary, but he followed the man over to the mossy, boulder-sized bloodstones. Whatever this was about, he would only be safer inside the circle. He chanted a quick prayer for protection, then said, "Okay, what do you want?"

"I want this delivered." The Man in the Tan Jacket opened his briefcase and took out a manila folder, stuffed with papers and held closed with a rubber band. Stamped on the cover were the words FOR CARLOS. "It's information from Strexcorp's secret files. Information they don't want anybody else to have — especially not a scientist."

That sounded promising. Cecil unbound the folder and flipped through the papers. He didn't understand most of what he saw, but it certainly looked very scientific, and very Strexy. Still: "Why not just take it to him yourself?"

"I've tried. But if I hand it to him directly, he forgets about it as soon as I'm out of sight. And I can't leave it somewhere for him to pick up, because I can't risk anyone from Strex finding it first."

"Then...won't I forget about it too?" asked Cecil, holding the file protectively against his chest. "Carlos is very smart, you know! Not that I'm _not_ smart. But if either of us was going to have a powerful-enough brain to hang on to something like this, it would probably be him."

"Intelligence alone won't cut it," agreed the Man in the Tan Jacket. "I was hoping it would. I hoped it wouldn't to come to this."

"Come to what? What are you planning?"

For the first time in Cecil's (admittedly limited) memories of the subject, the man looked...uncertain. Reluctant. Maybe even shy. "I can make you...feel something, Cecil. Something deep enough to make an impression that will last until you can get this to Carlos. You're the second-last person I would want to hurt — but that's exactly why I can make this work with you, and not with anybody else."

He set down the deerskin briefcase...

...and cupped Cecil's face in his hands.

It should have felt invasive. Threatening. Creepy. It was the way you touched someone when you were going to pull them into a kiss — which would have inspired some pretty deep feelings in Cecil, all right. Mostly feelings of calling the nearest officer of the Sheriff's secret police.

But somehow, even though Cecil's heart was beating faster and there was a sudden tightness in his chest, it wasn't because he felt menaced. Quite the opposite.

It felt familiar.

It felt _familial_.

A wistful guitar melody filled the air.

"Little brother," sang the Man in the Tan Jacket. "I was seven when you first came home. Already, Mother knew the role you'd have when grown. Even now that you're the Voice, you will always be my little brother...'cause you're younger, we're related, and we're boys."

He thumbed away the tears that had started to run down Cecil's cheeks.

"You'd remember if I had the choice. You would know that you're my little brother — 'cause you're younger, we're related, and we're boys. Little brother...little brother...."

"You —" Cecil gulped. "You've been here. This whole time."

His brother — a couple inches shorter now, hair the same color as Cecil's, killer cheekbones, eyes shaped exactly like Mom's, so many details Cecil had never been able to hold in his head before now, why hadn't he _seen_ — nodded.

"And when I walk away, I'll just...forget?" On a heart-wrenching flash of instinct, Cecil added: "— Again?"

"That's right."

Cecil's voice trembled. "Well, what if — what if I just stay here?"

"What, forever? You can't spend the rest of your life following me around everywhere. I got enough of that when you were five," said the Man in the Tan Jacket sternly. "And this absolutely must get to the scientists. I mean it."

He slid his hands back from Cecil's face and pulled him into a tight hug. Cecil rested his head on his big brother's shoulder, and felt in the warmth of the embrace that he wasn't the only one shaking.

"...just give me a minute or two before I have to let you go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Oh What A Beautiful Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KNEUtN21cuU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/oklahoma/ohwhatabeautifulmorning.htm)) from _Oklahoma!_ , "[Turn It Off](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2Xs9Z5gsHU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/bookofmormonthe/turnitoff.htm)) from _The Book of Mormon_ (hat tip to krg and vraik for the suggestion!), and "[Little Brothers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EETGwAYoHgU)" ([lyrics](http://phineasandferb.wikia.com/wiki/Little_Brothers)) from _Phineas and Ferb_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Darling, if we get CEO in / I'll make sure you know it, but first / Try the clerk_


	12. Act I, tracks 41-43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tamika Flynn and Lucy Gutierrez come up with an innovative partnership to keep up business at the Strex-beleagured White Sand Ice Cream Shop. Meanwhile, the science team does research on Kevin, leading Carlos to visit the station and get his own pseudo-soothing Strexy musical number.
> 
> Heads-up, this one has comedy cannibalism (we're doing a Sweeney Todd song, okay), as well as more Desert Bluffs-style "was that much blood really necessary."

No more than five minutes after Cecil showed up at the lab, red-eyed and out-of-breath and clutching a thick manila folder, Carlos and his team were all gathered around a table in the computer room with the papers spread out in a heap between them. 

This _was_ important. There was a ton of immensely relevant data here — all of it about Kevin, Cecil's creepy Strex-employed döppelganger. And although Carlos trusted his team, with their wide range of expertise plus their year-and-a-half of Night Vale experience, he wasn't sure they had the chops to tackle it all.

The harried, off-key melody around them was really not helping to lower the tension.

"Extra proteins catalogued," chanted Rochelle, running down a list of macromolecule structural formulae.

"Nucleic acid analogues," added Li Hua, with a chart of what looked like a DNA sequence.

Carlos had several pages with labels like _Psychic/Sensory Side Effects_. "Visual receptors dimmed."

And Dave had a bunch of circuit diagrams. "Implants in the paralimbic cortex, forming neural bonds...."

"All this goes so far beyond...!" sang Rochelle, a crescendo of frustration. She hesitated, then went back to the chant: "Are we sure it's not a con?"

"We'll be testing this all evening," muttered Dave.

"Just a sec," crooned Carlos, and, for just a moment, left it all behind. Cecil was still in a chair at the side of the lab, looking like much less of an emotional wreck, but still more somber than usual. "Hey, Cecil. Come with me, Cecil...."

He took Cecil by the arm and led him out into the hall, singing softly.

"Some of these data sets and notes, well, they suggest...that they cloned you. Kevin's a cloned _you!_ We can confirm it if we take your DNA and do some tests." When a wide-eyed Cecil nodded, Carlos added, "Can we start by drawing some blood?"

It set them all tumbling through a montage, scientists crisscrossing from one piece of humming electrical equipment to the next, diving in parallel into their own individual research streams. "That sterile yet? Let's check."

"Help me out? Hold this out...."

"Where'd they even get this tech?"

"Just a minute!"

"No one could have built these circuits yet...."

"Where's that IV?"

"But the eyes — ew, those eyes — that isn't right!"

"Hey, cool! Let's model the molecules."

"Those enchantments would be hard to get...."

"We'll figure out everything about this!" declared Carlos, now watching over the centrifuge as it fractionated a sample of Cecil's blood. "That's what makes us Night Vale's favorite scientists!"

In spite of his rousing words of motivation, his teammates' lines were only going from _allegretto_ to _allegrissimo_. Li Hua, at one of the computers trying to model the chemical structure of a molecule described in the cloning process, trilled, "Synthetic DNA ligase: it must have been accelerated."

Rochelle shook her head at another set of annotations, on a photocopied X-ray. "How'd this pass the F.D.A.'s required ethics protocols?"

Dave, at a different computer trying to transcribe a block of uncompiled code, sang, "Did they code this all in B? Is this nineteen seventy?"

Cecil was still in the chair where they'd drawn the blood, wearing a lime green bandage around his elbow and sipping at a juice box. It occurred to Carlos that maybe he should check in — "Is this boring you? I'm sorry, dear" — but before he could finish, the centrifuge started making a cross noise. "Wait, let me check the clearing factor —"

While he was poking at the machine, Rochelle leaned over his shoulder and chanted, "Carlos, about Kevin —"

"Yeah? That's what this all has been about."

Rochelle grimaced. "Someone's got to talk to him," she sang. "Would the station let you in?"

Would they? If he wasn't there as Cecil's personal guest...well, he had visited for professional reasons plenty of times, so there was precedent, right? "If I tell them it's for science...."

"Want our help?"

Carlos waved her off. "No! Self-reliance."

The rest of the team, meanwhile, was still caught up in their own research. "Substituted cathinone," chanted Li Hua, turning around the 3-D model of a new chemical structure.

"Might need samples out of bone," mused Dave.

"Ought to try electric shock."

"People, please, it's ten o'clock!" burst out Cecil. "Test it in the morning, won't you?"

The scientists all looked at each other. "Test it in the morning, should we?" echoed Rochelle.

Dave was a little more direct. "Test it in the morning, can we?"

Carlos nodded. "Pick this up tomorrow, sure, we'll test it in the morning...!"

It seemed to be the cue to end the song...which meant the team lost the advantage of montage time _before_ they had everything tidied up for the night. If Carlos had known, he would've tried to force a couple of verses about cleaning up.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"So, ah...how are you feeling?" asked Carlos on the car ride home. "Are you okay? Because if you're not okay, I would like to help. But you might need to tell me how."

Cecil blinked at him. "Not okay...because of the blood draw? It wasn't any more distressing than the kind they do at the bank. Or not okay because you were working late? I do understand that this is important! Besides, I got to be with you the whole time. That's very different from you disappearing without any warning and leaving me hanging."

Carlos flushed. He didn't _mean_ to do that! And besides, he hadn't even done it for months. Well, not _this_ month. Well, not more than once this month.

"Or not okay because it turns out my bosses might have cloned me years before they even moved here, and shot the clone full of some unholy combination of invasive neurotechnology and mind-altering chemicals, either before or after arranging to have his eyes gouged out? I'll admit that is a little unsettling," added Cecil. "But in the grand scheme of things, it could always be worse. Haven't I ever told you about my high school graduation?"

"Um," said Carlos. "I don't think so, no."

"Really! I thought it would have come up. It's how I got that one scar you always end up kissing because it's on my —"

"Cecil, it's not that I don't want to hear your story," interrupted Carlos, taking a right onto Somerset, "but I was thinking you might not be okay because of what happened _before_ we started investigating the folder."

Cecil frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...you came in here in tears, completely out of breath, you had a hard time speaking in complete sentences...all things that are scientifically correlated with high emotional distress."

Cecil's face was shadowed, out of the moonlight and the streetlights and the distant flickering of the Glow Cloud. His milky eyes blinked at Carlos in confusion. "...I did?"

"Yes!"

"It's not that I doubt your word, dear Carlos," said Cecil, gentle and soothing, like he was trying to reassure a small child. "But I don't remember any of that. All I know is that I was in the park for a while, and then I was here. And as the saying goes, if you can't remember something, it probably wasn't important...."

"...and if you can remember something, drink until you can't," finished Carlos. He knew his Night Vale aphorisms well enough to finish that one.

Maybe whatever-it-was would show up to upset Cecil again. But until then, Carlos would just have to let it lie.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

In one of the Book Club's secret town safe hideouts, which just happened to be the stockroom of the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, Tamika and a preteen dissection crew investigated the body of the latest Strexcorp helicopter pilot they had captured.

"Is 'body' even the right word?" she said out loud. "Should we be calling this thing a 'chassis' instead? Can't call ourselves Advanced Readers if we're not going to get our vocabulary right."

"It's still biological, sorta," said a boy from Tamika's bio class. "I bet they grew it in a vat or something. So they could direct its growth, and put in programming and mechanical parts whenever they wanted."

"Including an emergency wipe-everything protocol," finished Tamika. Here she'd been working on a whole plan to rehabilitate these pilots, get them off Strex's pharmaceuticals and maybe whip up a ritual to make their eyes grow back, and it turned out the company had a kill switch installed and ready to throw rather than give anyone the chance.

Someone did the code knock on the door, letting them know not to draw their slingshots, and Lucy Gutierrez let herself in. "Are you kids in the middle of a biohazard situation right now, or can you have lunch?"

The Book Club cheered at the arrival of milkshakes and nachos. Most of what the White Sand served was ice cream, but they had some basic food to round it out. The only person disappointed was the guy from bio, who surveyed the nachos and cheese with distaste. "Don't you still do chili dogs? I'd rather have a chili dog."

"We do, but I'm so sorry, I can't offer you one," said Lucy. "Our little business policy of _never touch a Strex product_ is getting more and more expensive, and when Hannah crunched the numbers last week, she said we couldn't give certain things away for free any more if we wanted to keep turning a profit."

Tamika held off on taking a first gulp of her mango-hemlock milkshake. "We can pay for this stuff too, if it's tough for you. We all got allowances. Right, everyone?"

Lucy waved the offer away. "Oh, I couldn't! This is an investment in the future of Night Vale. Now, enough about me. What's this project you're working on?"

They made themselves comfortable, sitting on boxes and crates, and explained all the parts of their dilemma. Couldn't get helicopters without pilots. Couldn't do anything good for the pilots, because their personalities were programs that got reformatted out of existence on capture. Couldn't even get any information about Strexcorp's tech out of the empty bodies, because they were biological in every other way.

"So what are you going to do with them?" asked Lucy, doing a curious circle of the body currently laid out on her stockroom table.

"Bury them, probably," said Tamika. "Or burn 'em? Or take them to the dump, maybe. We haven't finished that part of our research yet."

Lucy nodded...then sang, slowly, contemplatively: "Seems a downright shame...."

"Shame?" echoed Tamika.

"Throwing them away," clarified Lucy, still singing, while ominous chords rose around them. "Said I wouldn't touch Strex products. Right? But, but: meant I wouldn't _pay_."

With one plastic-gloved hand she poked at the nearest closed, sunken eyelid, and made a face at the way it sagged.

"Efficiency's their game? So let's game them back. Put all these to use, to produce —" She gave the kids a sheepish smile. "Well, you can deduce."

Tamika shook her head. She wasn't following. Not yet.

"Why throw them away?" crooned Lucy again. "I mean, with the local meat prices high, soon we might not even get it —"

"Oh!" exclaimed Tamika.

Out of nowhere, Lucy held up a set of carving knives. "Good, you got it."

Grinning, Tamika beckoned for the Advanced Readers to go into motion. They took a knife each and followed Lucy out of the room, wheeling the dead biomachine around a corner into the kitchen.

Lucy kept up a cheery little ditty through the trip, and kept it up as she flicked switches and turned dials to rev up the White Sand's industrial grill. "Take, for instance, Mr. Carlsberg, his repair job: pulls down Strexcorp cameras, takes the circuits out for free supplies. Now a circuit or a lens is handy should the need arise — but the first need anybody has is lunch!"

"Oh, Miz Lucy, what a clever notion: so efficient, even Strex would have to see the logic!" sang Tamika as knives flashed around them. "Oh, Miz Lucy, why we didn't think of this before, I'll never know!"

"Well, it does seem a shame," agreed Lucy in a modest harmony, lining up ketchup, mustard, and relish on the counter beside them. "Think about it — lots of other Strex officials will be coming after you, won't they?"

"How delectable — also undetectable — how choice, how rare —"

"— think of all that lunch!"

"For what's the sound of the world out there?" declared Tamika, flinging out an arm to encompass the whole town outside the White Sand as a whole merry carnival of instruments thundered within.

"What, Tamika? What, Tamika? What is that sound?" chorused the rest of the Book Club, over the roar of the grill and the hiss of frying oil.

"Those corporate slogans pervading the air?"

"Yes, Tamika! Yes, Tamika! Yes, all around!"

"They're chewing through our local business," sang Tamika, and her whole crew joined her for the next line: "So why should we have to chew any less?"

In no time at all Lucy was pulling a rack of sizzling cuts of meat out of the grill, and flipping them with expert precision into a row of buns. "Here we are! Hot off the grill."

They smelled awfully good. Tamika let the other Book Club members line up in front of her, but her mouth was already watering. One of the younger kids looked at his new pseudo-hot-dog with wide eyes. "What is this?"

"It's clerk," sang Lucy proudly. "Have a little clerk."

"Is it really good?" piped up a teenager.

"Just a bit overworked," admitted Lucy. "Sort of like accountant, it tends to be dry...least until it's fried."

"Do you have PA?" asked Tamika, starting to get into this.

Lucy shook her head. "Came in late today."

Tamika shrugged. "Oh well, I'm looking for a rich cut anyway."

With a smile, Lucy personally handed her the last of the hot dogs. "Darling, if we get CEO in, I'll make sure you know it, but first? Try the clerk!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

After closing the shop for the evening, Hannah stood at the kitchen door and watched in fond admiration as her Lucy fried and battered and grilled half a dozen different new recipes at once. Eventually Lucy skipped over to her, holding up a basket of freshly-breaded bite-size nuggets. "President is nice," she said with a grin.

Hannah took one of the bites of meat, appraising it. "Sure it isn't Vice?"

"No, because it's just been promoted! Which adds just a soupçon of spice," trilled Lucy.

"Been to the canteen?" suggested Hannah. Who better than food service workers to serve _as_ food?

Her wife sighed, the suggestion clearly bringing up bad memories. "All of them got fired — lawsuit pending — replaced by some vending machines! Saddest thing I've seen. Would've been delicious with ketchup and beans...!"

Hannah put one hand in Lucy's, rested the other on Lucy's waist, and together they waltzed between the countertops. "Is that a buyer on the fryer?"

Lucy giggled. "Mercy no, dear! Look closer — that's clearly stockholder!"

"Smells revolting," sang Hannah. "Like consulting."

"I don't know where the stockholder's been!" admitted Lucy.

They sashayed to a halt in front of the oven, where Hannah gave her wife a twirl and burst into a triumphant leading line. "The history of the world, my love...."

"Save a lot of graves, do a lot of teen rebels favors," twittered Lucy in appreciative harmony.

"...is common folk serving execs above...."

"Who knows who we'll save while giving them something to savor?"

"How gratifying for once to know...."

They spun back into each other's arms and sang in chorus: "...executives will serve those down below!"

Hannah asked about another sizzling steak, and Lucy bounced on her heels with pride. "CECO! Order it to-go!" She tugged Hannah down into a crouch so they could look in the oven, where she flicked on the light to reveal that something bready was rising. "And here's an assistant director — he makes some respectable dough! And I've just begun! Here we have the head of security: slippery, for sure, but he's done!"

"Put it on a bun," crooned Hannah, deliciously approving. "Strexcorp zero, teenage resistance force one!"

"Try the foreman! Or the doorman!"

Honestly, money management had always been more up Hannah's alley. "Did you, by any chance, pull some cuts of financial?"

"CFO work?" Lucy nodded to the end of the counter. "In the toaster."

"You're the town's greatest wonder, bar none!" They stood once more, Hannah nuzzling Lucy's nose before murmuring in her ear, "Think we'll ever have 'radio supervisor' on the menu?"

With a squeak of appreciation, Lucy pulled her into a bear hug. Probably getting grease on her outfit, but Hannah was okay with that.

"We'll outrun that corporation yet."

"Yes, yes, I know, my love," crooned Lucy.

Hannah gestured to the ensemble of nuggets, hot dogs, taco filler, and other items not yet cooked. "Think of the business this menu will get!"

Lucy grinned. "In- and not-in-the-know, my love!"

"We'll serve the company after all! Yes, we'll be serving it — to the rest of town — and to anyone at all!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Kevin was in the strange and bloodless Night Vale booth with Carlo, doing sound checks, when their visitor arrived.

He was wearing a lab coat, and pulling a cart of scientific equipment. He had dark, delicate skin; beautiful amber-brown eyes; and dark hair with streaks of grey at the temples that Kevin absolutely could not stop staring at. "Hello, you must be Kevin? I'm Carlos. Carlos the scientist."

"Oh, _wow_ ," breathed Kevin, standing to greet him. "Your _hair_...."

Carlos looked awkward. "I've heard."

"...it's such a _mess!_ "

"Eh?"

"All those thick curls, it must take forever to take care of!" continued Kevin. "You probably hate it, don't you? I mean, I don't, I think it's —" He blushed. "— very appealing, but you must be really frustrated not having a full-time barber in town! Would you like some recommendations for barbers in Desert Bluffs? There's this great one Carlo goes to...oh, by the way, this is my science friend Carlo!"

Behind him, Carlo stood too, and waved. "We've met!"

Carlos did a double-take. "Carlo? Is that you? I didn't recognize you with the, uh, the eye thing."

"We used to work in the same research department, back east," explained Carlo to Kevin. "People used to mix us up all the time. It made for some hilarious stories, let me tell you!"

"It sure did. Listen, maybe we can catch up later...but I didn't come here to reminisce." Carlos squared his shoulders and addressed Kevin. "I would like to take a sample of your blood. For professional reasons."

"Oh, no problem!" chirped Kevin. "I have lots of it! How much do you need? Just a second...."

While Carlos picked up some vials from his cart, Kevin unbuttoned his cuff, rolled his sleeve up to the elbow, and bit his wrist. Just a light scrape, barely breaking the skin, just enough to set streams of blood flowing down his forearm.

He held out his arm to Carlos, letting the blood drip down his knuckles, and beamed as Carlos was dumbstruck with appreciation. "Help yourself!"

"Careful, silly!" exclaimed Carlo, scurrying forward to hold a towel under Kevin's arm. "Management said you weren't allowed to redecorate, remember?"

"...Maybe you should sit down," said Carlos weakly. Kevin, eager to please, settled back into the host's chair. "And have some juice or something before I get started."

He had juice on the cart too. Kevin got to sip from a box of it as Carlos snapped on a pair of cute latex gloves. (Not a company brand of juice, either! How exotic. Maybe Strexcorp should buy this Ralph's place. Or just make its own move into the orange juice market.)

"Out of scientific curiosity," continued Carlos, making polite conversation while he coerced Kevin's blood to flow into the vials, "Carlo, do you remember how, before we moved here, you were...different?"

"Oh, lots of ways." Carlo sat back in the guest chair with a smile. "Sometimes I got annoyed or upset about the silliest things. Even worse, sometimes I made _other_ people upset, and didn't even care! And I had the most ridiculous hang-ups. Did you ever notice the bizarre ideas I had about gay people?"

"They, ah, may have come to my attention once or twice."

"But now I realize that sexual orientation has nothing to do with how good an employee you are! And in fact, homophobia and transphobia are hugely detrimental to productivity, and to the economy as a whole."

"...Right. That is the problem with those things." Carlos capped the last vial and started wiping down Kevin's arm. "Do you happen to remember how you came to that realization? Was there anything that, let's say, helped you along?"

Kevin gazed at him with a sudden wave of sympathy. "Do you still feel negative emotions about things too? Like your boyfriend?"

The Night Vale scientist looked suddenly guilty. "It's perfectly healthy, psychologically and emotionally speaking, to feel negative things as well as positive ones about your romantic partner...."

"Oh, gosh, that isn't what I meant! I was thinking that your boyfriend _also_ feels negative emotions, not that you would be feeling negative emotions _about_...oh my. Are you having problems in your relationship? Because that's another area where Strexcorp has solutions!"

"I think my line of questioning may have given you the wrong idea," stammered Carlos, not looking up from the gauze he was wrapping around Kevin's wrist. "I'm not interested in any Strex products or processes for personal reasons. Tell me about all the scientific details, that would be great, but if you try to give me a sales pitch along the way you'll only be wasting your time."

"Huh," said Kevin. The company said sales pitches were always good...but the company also said waste and inefficiency was bad. What a cool paradox. Carlos must have so many advanced degrees, to come up with something like that! "Okay, I won't do a sales song...but...but it does seem like you must not be _okay_ , feeling sadness when you live in such a perfect world with so much potential. And I...would like it better if you were okay."

At last Carlos looked up at Kevin again, a crease of worry between his brows. "This is very disconcerting," he murmured. "You sound...sad? Or at least, concerned. But it doesn't show in your expression at all. And it's not like it can show up in your eyes."

"Concern! So that's what this is." Kevin breathed a sigh of relief. "I wasn't sure."

"Concern is also psychologically healthy. Were you aware of that?"

"Oh, yes! It's company-approved! I mean, under the right conditions, obviously." Kevin clasped his hand on top of Carlos's. "But even so...do you think you could try to be less concerning?"

The ON AIR light flickered to life. An acoustic guitar began to strum.

"Try not to get worried, dwelling on your problems, and your imperfect self, oh," crooned Kevin. "Don't you know everything is perfect, everything's fine? For the Smiling God loves you tonight...your reflection in its smile is bright. For a while, try to smile and forget all your problems tonight...."

In the background, Carlo pushed on the mixer to patch in a recording of positive company affirmations, and chanted softly along: _Everything is perfect, everything is perfect...._

"Trouble in your romance, stress with a co-worker? Believe you can let it go! Then you'll feel everything is perfect, everything's fine. Make the most of what you have to give...live the full potential you can live...try to smile, try to smile, forget your imperfect self tonight...!"

_Everything is perfect, everything is perfect...._

The only warning Kevin got was drums and electric guitars picking up before Carlos batted his touch aside and stood up — not happy or relaxed at all, but, if anything, harsher and more distressed than before.

"Humans are imperfect, and that's how it should be — you can only fix it so far!" he half-sang, half-shouted. Gesturing toward Carlo (who waved), he added, "Even if they hurt you, you don't have the right to forcibly change who they are! Stresses I can work through, flaws I can get used to — and _nothing_ is _wrong_ with my hair!"

Quickly Kevin flowed up out of his chair and over to Carlos, making the melody settle back down as he took over. "Try not to get angry, try not to feel any negative emotions, oh...." 

Carlos tensed, flinching one way and then another as Kevin circled around him, leaving friendly touches around his shoulders.

"Don't you know everything is perfect, everything's fine? For the Smiling God loves you tonight! Your reflection in its smile is bright." Kevin traced a fingertip along Carlos's cheek, up the line where there would be stitches if Carlos had smiled, _really_ smiled, any time recently. "You can smile, you can smile and kill your imperfect self tonight...!"

 _Everything is perfect, everything is perfect,_ agreed the speakers.

Carlos yanked away from his touch — they had done a one-eighty, so Kevin was between him and the door — and dug in his heels. "When you say _imperfect_ , you mean _unproductive_ — how did you get that concept?" he intoned. "Is it how you're managed? Think why they might say that! Have you ever second-guessed? Your god is not loving, your bosses are not caring — all they love, all they care for is their bottom line!"

In one firm motion Kevin pushed/guided him to fall into the host's chair — then, for good measure, sat across his lap and kicked off so the chair started to spin.

"Try not to get worried, dwelling on your problems, asking all these questions, oh!" he sang again, strong and uncompromising, as they twirled in a slow circle. "Don't you know everything is perfect, everything's fine? Make the most of what you have to give! Live the full potential you can live!" He ran both hands through Carlos's unruly curls. "Try to smile, try to smile, forget your imperfect self tonight!"

With impressive tenderness Carlos closed his own hands over Kevin's, and held them off. To Kevin's relief, he didn't struggle or fight any further, just held the distance between them steady and waited for the song to finish. Carlo had joined the chant of "Everything is perfect, everything is perfect," making a soothing background chorus as Kevin's voice soared above it: "You can smile, you can smile, know the Smiling God loves you tonight...!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of Act I will be here soon, honest. We'll keep going through the Auction, the Debate, a Christmas special, Orange Grove, and The Woman from Italy, and then it's intermission time.
> 
> Question: should I post this as multiple works (one each for Act I, the Intermission, and Act II) and link them together as a series, or just keep adding new chapters to the same work? It's going to get pretty unwieldy as a single work, but if that's how people prefer to read...? If you've got a strong opinion either way, drop a line and let me know.
> 
> Today's songs to the tune of "[Call Back In The Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sD5uOv8VstU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/littleshopofhorrors/callbackinthemorning.htm#)) from _Little Shop of Horrors_ , "[A Little Priest](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGzpzJ4fzGY)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/sweeneytoddthedemonbarberoffleetstreet/alittlepriest.htm)) from _Sweeney Todd_ (as suggested by hungarianlanterns), and "[Everything's Alright](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UeeKZ9vnknI)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/jesuschristsuperstar/everythingsalright.htm)) from _Jesus Christ Superstar_ (suggested by ivoryandwines).
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Say something — anything / "Welcome to Night —" / Anything but that_


	13. Act I, tracks 44-46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil finally gets back to work, where Intern Maureen is still alive and ready to tango. Marcus Vansten invites local toddlers to become chimney sweeps. Tamika and company go on a haunted library run. And in the middle of a big auction-house dance number, nobody notices who walks off with ownership of Lot 37.

On the last day of Cecil's enforced suspension, an excited Carlos called him down to the lab, where he and the whole science team did a big dance number to explain their findings so far. By the last chorus, the six of them were all in a chorus line doing high kicks. It was mesmerizing.

(Carlos was mostly recovered from his visit with Kevin. The smaller scratches had faded, the band-aids had come off of the larger ones, and most of the hair that had been yanked loose from its follicles had been brushed out. He still had a couple of scrapes; as far as Cecil was concerned, they made him look more dashing than ever.)

"Ow," groaned Rochelle as the last chorus faded, collapsing into the nearest chair. "I am not flexible enough for this choreography."

"So, did you follow all that?" added Carlos, making it all the way to the seat next to Cecil before falling into it.

"Every word!" said Cecil, though he had only caught about half of them. He didn't want to look stupid in front of Carlos's colleagues. "I'm very into science. I understand science things."

"Of course, of course."

The other scientists were all doing cool-down stretches or running to get water, but Dave stopped at their table to wink and say, "We all know how _into science_ you are, Cecil! But I think what Carlos is trying to say is that a lot of the facts got left out of the song — for reasons of rhythm — and he would like a chance to spell them out for you properly, now that we're not restricted to an ABCB rhyme scheme."

"Oh!" exclaimed Cecil. "Why didn't you just say so? In that case...remember that word in the second verse, the one you rhymed with 'years'?"

"You mean 'telomeres'?" asked Carlos. "Sure, what do you want to know?"

Cecil folded his hands on the table and sat up brightly. "I guess the biggest thing is...what are they, and why do we care?"

Carlos opened and closed his mouth several times.

Cecil waited.

"Okay, um...you did catch the part where Kevin's DNA tests as identical to yours, right?" asked Carlos at last. (Cecil nodded.) "Which is consistent with being a clone. Or a twin. But strands of DNA also have meaningless buffer sequences on the end, to protect them from losing anything important when they get copied. Those are what we in science call telomeres. And Kevin's telomeres are a lot longer than yours, meaning they've been copied a lot less, meaning he came into existence a lot more recently."

"...meaning he cannot be a twin," finished Cecil, relieved. Much as he wanted to find out what happened to his missing brother, he did _not_ want his search to lead him to that marginally-less-awful-than-first-assumed-but-still- _awful_ Kevin. "Ooh, and that explains why his memories are weird, too! Why he has complete unawareness of ever having had a childhood, instead of just having huge inexplicable memory gaps like the rest of us!"

"Uh...right."

"So how recently was he created, exactly? Can the telomeres be specific?"

"We're not sure yet. Too many other variables." Carlos gave him a sheepish grin. "Right now I'm just glad we didn't have to fit the phrase _human telomerase reverse transcriptase_ into verse."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Maureen had never thought she would be so glad to have Cecil back. But after two weeks spent mostly hiding in the men's room (on the assumption that "behind Khoshekh and his kittens" was one of the safest places in the station), bandaging her latest good-morning handshake from the Eyeless Wonder and counting the days until he was gone, she was almost looking forward to being asked to proofread the next part of Cecil's current slash epic.

Almost.

She didn't actually speak to him until early afternoon. The broadcasting equipment was having some kind of technical crisis, and a harried Lauren Mallard told Maureen to bring Cecil down to figure it out. When she found him in his office, he greeted her with a wide-eyed gasp. "Maureen! You're still alive?"

Maureen rolled her eyes. "I know, right? This job is fatal enough on a normal day, let alone with the Eyeless Wonder hanging around. But I spent most of it hiding, and hey, looks like it worked."

"Well, good for you," said Cecil brightly, accompanying her down the hall. "And since I'm back and you're still here, would you mind taking a look at the latest chapter of —"

"If it involves another shark, I'm not doing it."

"Oh."

They arrived at the recording studio, where the panelists for that afternoon's recording of _Wait, Wait...Don't! No, Don't! Please, Don't!_ were crowded around outside: looking grouchy, impatient, and, in one particularly bad case, congealed. Lauren and Daniel were bent over separate banks of equipment in facing rooms, and neither of them appeared to have any idea what they were doing.

"You take the control room." Cecil glanced at Lauren, and heaved a self-sacrificing sigh. "I'll take the booth."

It was a measure of how frustrated Lauren was that she didn't say a single thing to scold or embarrass Cecil, just let him get on with figuring out what was wrong with the equipment. They closed the soundproof doors, flipped some switches so Maureen and Cecil could talk to each other via speakers and microphones, and set to work.

Soundproof or not, it wasn't long before they were hearing a distinctly Latin beat. Salsa...?

Moving a slider, Cecil sang, "The samples won't delay, but the cable —"

"There's another way," said Maureen from the control room. "Say something — anything."

Cecil bent toward the mic. "Welcome to Night —"

Maureen cleared her throat, cutting him off. "Anything but that."

She unplugged a wire from the mixer on her side, and for the moment the audio to the booth was cut off.

The muting didn't go both ways...but apparently Lauren thought it did, because she burst out, "She's so mean."

"She's mean," echoed Cecil.

"Really mean!"

"Pretty mean."

"I don't know why that girl is so hostile!" Lauren paced the length of the booth, hands on her hips. "All this work will look great put on her résumé: you would think she'd at least fake a smile!"

Watching out of the corner of her eye, Maureen expected Cecil to keep up the perfunctory agreement, maybe even try to brush Lauren off. Instead, he pulled off his headphones and turned to face her: "Rolls her eyes when you ask for the simplest of tasks, and is late when she's making your caffeine?"

Lauren looked startled. "So it isn't just me?"

"Though I hate to agree..." Cecil took a couple of hip-swinging steps. "...that's all on Intern Maureen."

(Lauren looked like she _wanted_ to be put off by the hips...but wasn't quite managing it.)

"Our Intern Maureen...!" continued Cecil, shaking his head. "Can't imagine why she acts so stressed! Our training's extensive...."

Lauren nodded. "So true."

"...and inexpensive...."

Still pacing, Lauren shook her finger at the control room. "Be glad you're employed!"

Cecil sidled up next to her. "When she's proofreading scripts, she could beta some fic: I don't think that's too big a request!"

"Sounds like a simple routine," sang Lauren, and they came to a halt with the same step, facing each other: "...for Intern Maureen!"

They linked hands. Cecil twirled Lauren around. There shouldn't have been enough room in the small, cluttered booth for anyone to tango...but Maureen had a class on Saturdays, enough to recognize the steps, and yeah, they were definitely doing a tango.

With a spin and a contra-step, Cecil continued: "Have you caught her rolling her eyes when saying 'Yes, boss'?"

Grimly, Lauren nodded. "Seen it."

"Have you told her to compromise, and she —"

"— said it's...our loss," finished Lauren, eyes wide in recognition. "Does she frown when you bring up her dog?"

"Don't know why!" lamented Cecil. "He's just...too cute!"

(Maureen only had like five pictures of the puppy on her phone! Everyone at work had already seen them! If you didn't really want to talk to _her_ , you might as well leave her alone, instead of interrupting her work to ask about the dog for the umpteenth time....)

"It was fine the first twenty times," agreed Lauren. "Why not now? It doesn't...compute!"

The two of them pivoted and flourished, feet flicking to one side and the other, one of Cecil's legs whipping around behind him, then each one alternately hooking a leg up around the other's thigh. Eyebrows raised, Lauren said, "How'd you learn to tango?"

"Weekend classes, sophomore year at Night Vale Community College," replied Cecil. "And you?"

"Neural implant, last-minute upload before a particularly fancy Strexcorp stockholder gala." They switched hands, pivoted, and began to glide in the opposite direction from before; Lauren made a face. "It's hard to do this backwards...."

Cecil snorted. "You should try it in heels!"

Maureen, meanwhile, re-plugged the cords, hit a couple of power buttons, then turned to Daniel (whose left ear was sparking slightly) and held out her hand. Enough was enough. She wanted in on this.

With a fantasy-sequence _whoosh_ the walls melted away, opening up a wide, sun-dappled ballroom that dozens of dancers could sweep across. Maureen was now wearing a slinky black cocktail dress, Daniel's yellow-necktied business suit had morphed into a black tuxedo, and the entire cast of _Wait, Wait...Don't! No, Don't! Please, Don't!_ had ended up in similar outfits and paired off to twirl around them.

As they cross-stepped their way past Lauren and Cecil — she in a tux with a bright-yellow satin vest, he in a black bolero jacket paired with a violet sash — they pivoted and switched partners, Maureen now dancing with Cecil. "You monster!"

Cecil looked blank. "A monster?"

Over her shoulder, Maureen yelled at Lauren, "You're both monsters!"

"That is not fair —"

"I should consciously give up this charade!"

Trying to be placating, Cecil sang, "Gotta look on the bright side with all of your might —"

"What bright side?" cried Maureen. "I'm not even paid!" Another set of skirt-fluttering twirls, and Cecil and Daniel spun off their respective partners, so Maureen ended up arm-in-arm with Lauren. "I keep dancing your dance, though there's little chance I'll make it unscathed through this role! And if I didn't need college credit so bad? I wouldn't still be here at all!"

It was hardly a three-person dance — but somehow Cecil let himself back in, so he and Lauren each had one of Maureen's arms, escorting her down the row of dancers. "Not Intern Maureen," they chorused, "with her broadcasting major half-done! However we test her...she'll finish out the semester!"

"Do the Smiling God's chants," sang Lauren from one side.

"Sing to our station ants," added Cecil from the other.

"She'll attack every task one by one!" they finished, letting her twirl back to Daniel just in time for the real-world setting to fall back into place. In the booth once more, Lauren crooned, "Surprised she's not a machine...."

One hand on her waist, Cecil added, "I hope her death's at least clean...."

"Try the mic!" called Maureen from the control room.

Cecil and Lauren bent over the microphone. "Our Maureen...!" 

It sounded _great_. Maureen gave them a thumbs-up. "And we're patched!"

Apparently her poor bosses didn't get to let go of each other until they sang one last line: "Our intern Maureen!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"First off, welcome back! Everything is fine. Nothing happening, if you know what I mean. You shouldn't know what I mean. If you do know, you should forget. I'm not going to mention anything, and you're not going to hear anything. And both of us will fail to remember."

It was so good to be back on-air, doing the _news_ again!

Or so Cecil thought, until he started reading some of the descriptions of items in the Sheriff's Secret Police Auction, and got to lot 37.

Trying to stay calm, he moved on to the next news item. "We take you now to a recorded promotional statement from leading citizen and friendly local billionaire Marcus Vansten. Complete with the forty-piece children's choir Mr. Vansten generously started funding a few weeks ago, after he realized he didn't want people to stop singing for him once this musical front has passed through."

He signaled for Daniel to cut to the tape. (They had agreed to give Maureen the afternoon off.)

It was hard to tell whether the ad had been a musical piece when it was recorded, but it sure had developed a melody by now:

"Toddlers of Night Vale, come follow your dreams," intoned Vansten's gravelly voice, "by earning a wage: become a chimney sweep. I have chimneys to spare, you can work day and night, and get your folks out of their financial plights. What else were you gonna do today, right?"

(Cecil, meanwhile, was texting Carlos: _can u get 2 the auction 4 me? :(((_ )

Dropping out of the song, Vansten added, "Always wanted to be a sweep, haven't you? Enroll at the Night Vale Preschool Chimney Sweep Academy. It'll put a smile on good old Marcus Vansten's face." 

"I have chimneys on every last one of my homes, and my offices, mall, hangar bays, and moon domes. I strap chimneys to peddlers, to dance for their keep. You wanna be peddlers, or wanna be sweeps?"

The aforementioned children's choir took that as their cue to answer. "Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey chim chim cher-ee," they sang, sweet and downright angelic. (Metaphorically.) "To sweep Marcus' chimneys, how great would that be? Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey chim chim cher-oo: he's such a nice guy...he might shake hands with you!"

"And not only that, but I'll pay you kids, too!" sang Vansten. Losing the melody again, he added, "But not at adult rates or anything. I mean, you're all like, what, four? Let's not get crazy here."

He didn't elaborate. (Also, Carlos did not text back.)

The instruments twittered around in thematic circles for a bit, before the kids decided to pick up the chorus again. "Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim-in-ey chim chim cher-ee: to sweep Marcus' chimneys, how great would that be? Chim, chim, chim chim cher-ee: when you learn to sweep, you're in glad company! Nowhere can you find a happier crew than children who sing, 'Chim cher-ee, chim cher-oo!' Chim chim-in-ey, chim chim cher-ee, chim —"

"Oh, by the way!" interrupted Vansten. "I'm running for Mayor or whatever."

For a moment the music rose and crashed triumphantly over him. When it settled to a background level again, Vansten added, "So yeah. That's happening. And obviously I'm gonna get it, because, c'mon." He paused. "That's all. Okay, thanks. Is the song over yet?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Just because Cecil wasn't reporting on anything happening with Tamika, of course, didn't mean that nothing was happening with Tamika. At the moment, she and a handful of trusted members of the Book Club were creeping through the Night Vale Library itself: picking up the next set of books on their to-read list, after making the mandatory stop at the Returns desk. (The late fees at this place were _murder_.)

The atmosphere in here was always seriously creepy, and the weather only made it worse. Spooky minor-key music and eerie humming dogged the kids' footsteps as they tiptoed down the stacks. Huge dark shapes, some ragged and hunched, some sinuous and slithering, moved through the gloom around them.

As the kids snuck through the biography section, a haunting melody of pipes and strings rose up beneath them, and the grim, towering monsters in the shadows began to chant:

"Boys and girls of every age," they intoned. "Look sharp before turning the page! It's not safe to sit and read, with us in the library!"

Tamika and her companions ducked quickly behind the public-use computers. Slingshot raised, Tamika checked around the corner into the dictionary aisle, then motioned for the others to follow — and to make it quick.

Deep baritones and screeching cackles sent a creepy harmony after them: "It's the library, it's the library: children scream, vanished in the stacks. It's the library — grim and deadly as can be — want to live? Then your friends had better watch your backs! Come on in, and prepare to scream, with us in the library...!"

From behind a rotted doorway that was dripping some kind of black ichor, a solo voice snarled, "I am the one in the media room: sharp teeth shining out of the gloom!"

And within a rocky nest under a rust-eaten sign that read INFORMATION, another rumbled, "I am the one at the reference desk: furry green face and body that's grotesque!"

"It's the library, it's the library — Library! Library! Library! Library!" the voices laughed and howled. A chilly wind blew through the tops of the stacks. "At this job, where we roam...everyone, hide when you hear us come!"

Tamika checked her list, then eyed the range of call numbers on the highest of the shelves to her left. "Need that book," she hissed. "Where's my grappling hook? Keep a careful lookout for the next surprise!"

As someone dug the instruments out of their backpack, the rest of the group chanted: "Round that corner: run! In the YA section, archivists are lurking now, and how they'll pounce!"

Already rappelling her way up the stacks, Tamika intoned, "It's the library, run by LIS degrees —"

"Aren't you scared?" called a few of the kids below.

"Yes, that's just smart!"

"Sneak inside, creep about, hope that they don't find us out. Hide from the creak of a wheeled book cart," chanted the Advanced Readers. "Everybody scream — everybody scream! — with us in the library!"

Bound collection of Kristine Kathryn Rusch novellas in hand, Tamika leaped back to the ground.

Something flat and many-legged skittered along the ceiling, far too close. "I help to teach at an ESL class," it squawked. "Pounce on the weak and vanish in a flash!"

The Book Club tried to flee back the way they had come, but something was crouching over the computers now, its voice crackling like static. "I just upgraded the database! Now I am coming to eat your face!"

They took off in the opposite direction, flat-out running now, as something hunched and loping kept pace with them in the next aisle over. "I keep our new collections up-to-date — get in my way and you'll seal your fate!"

"It's the library, it's the library!" The voices were everywhere, along with the scraping of claws and the flapping of wings. "Library! Library! Library! Library! Sweet young readers everywhere: try one book and you'll be ensnared! Without you, how would we eat, working at the library?"

Tamika and company had hit the checkout desk, and not a moment too soon. "Sneak about," she warned them, raising her slingshot to guard their backs, "till we can check out: show your card and run until you get outside!"

As they frantically stamped checkout slips, a couple of scaly, bale-eyed librarians descended, fangs glinting as they grinned. "See the due date, and don't let them be late, or you might find one day we show up outside your home —"

They broke off, screeching in pain, as a flurry of heavy stones, poison darts, and throwing knives took them down.

"It's the library? Doesn't scare me!" crowed every member of the Book Club. "Not when we are led by a very special gal! Our Tamika, she isn't scared of ya: we are all protected by the Summer Reader!"

Other librarians kept chanting: "It's the library, it's the library — library, library, library, library —"

But not one of these leaped forward to attack. With a smug grin, Tamika finished the chorus: "At this job where they roam, librarians hide when they hear us come!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

At the auction house, the pace was a lot more sedate. It wasn't exactly the auctioneers' nature to go _adagissimo_ , but the excruciatingly slow piano line overrode their nature, and everybody else's. Even the rifle duel over Lot 28 (a gently-used five-cup coffee maker) was downright serene.

"Who bids on these flying daggers?" crooned an auctioneer standing over Lot 4. "Perfect for a maniac. Who bids on these flying daggers? Perfect for a maniac."

At Lot 2, a second auctioneer trilled, "Will you bid on some coins, if they're glowing? Bid on coins, if they're glowing?"

They repeated their refrains, weaving in and over each other, and kept it up as a third auctioneer joined in: "Elvis .45s...Elvis .45s...Elvis .45s...."

And a fourth, deep and resonant: "Near-mint X-Men...bid on X-Men 3? Near-mint X-Men...bid on X-Men 3?"

"Who will bid, who will bid?" they crooned in soft, overlapping chorus. "Who will bid, who will bid?"

In the center of the slowly circling crowd stood one Cecil Palmer: the host of Night Vale Community Radio, who might or might not also be the content of one of the auction items. "Who will bid on lot thirty-seven?" he sang. "There was no description to see."

"Who bids on these flying daggers?"

"I don't know how I will survive it, not knowing what this lot could be...."

"Elvis .45s...."

Cecil clutched his paddle, looking around in growing anxiety. He didn't really want to be here, but..."Oh, when I tried to call and ask for a photo of the lot...they only laughed at me and cackled. So what choice have I got?"

"Bid on coins?"

"Who will bid on lot thirty-seven? I'm so scared, I swear I can't breathe."

"Near-mint X-Men...." "...Elvis .45s...."

"Me, oh my! I can't bear to lose it." Cecil shivered, throat parched, cheeks flushing. "My vision's gone unclear — how did I end up here? Oh, who would want to bid on me?"

"Who will bid, who will bid?" sang the crowd in sympathy. "Who will bid, who will bid?"

Out of nowhere two people linked arms with Cecil on either side, and the pace finally kicked up.

"Who will bid on lot thirty-seven? There was no description to see!" chorused the whole room. "I don't know how I will survive it, not knowing what this lot could be! And now the room is going blurry — my heart throbs loud and slow. How can I focus through this worry? Is it my turn to go?"

The enthusiastic square-dancing ensemble was making poor lightheaded Cecil dizzier than ever. Had he eaten before coming here? Should he have eaten more? Did coffee count? What if it was really _strong_ coffee?

"Who will bid on lot thirty-seven? I'm so scared, I swear I can't breathe! Me, oh my! I can't bear to lose it. My vision's gone unclear — how did I end up here? Oh, who would want to bid on me? And now the room is going blurry — my heart throbs loud and slow — how can I focus through this worry — is it my turn to go...?"

If it weren't for the hardy, supportive line of dancers holding him up, Cecil probably would have fallen over. As it was, measure after measure went past in which he got dragged along in more-or-less upright circles, head spinning as he blinked back tears.

The next thing he knew, he had been spun to the front of the crowd — and an auctioneer was announcing the debut of Lot 38.

"But who bid on lot thirty-seven?" sang Cecil — with every attending citizen of Night Vale backing him up, which was nice, sure, but not as nice as it would've been if one of them had _answered_. "Missed it in the panic and tears! Me, oh my! How foolish, oh, Cecil. I didn't see who won — and now the bidder's gone — who could have bid on me, me, me?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The show was long over, and Cecil was in the men's room having some therapeutic Khoshekh-petting time, when Carlos finally got back to him. "I'm so sorry I didn't get your message! We spent most of the afternoon stuck in an alternate dimension where everything was frogs, and frogs get terrible FM reception. I only just got caught up with the show. Did you get in touch with anyone else in time? What happened with the lot?"

"I didn't, and I have no idea," said Cecil.

"...Oh," said Carlos. "Does this mean, um...does someone own you? Is that even legal?"

"Of course it's legal, Carlos! I don't know if that's what this lot _was_ or not, but when you're under contract to eldritch forces, even if that contract is later sold, you get reclassified as a body part, and therefore sellable property. Read your Constitution!"

"I study science, Cecil, not history or law," protested Carlos. "Listen...would it help if I took you out to dinner? At a non-Strex-owned business? I'll pay."

Cecil sniffled and gave Khoshekh an extra skritch behind the ears. "Yes, please."

"Okay. Where do you want to go?"

"The White Sand? I don't know if you heard, but they just expanded their menu so it has real food, instead of just some cheap fast food to go with the ice cream. Steak and grilled chicken and stuff like that."

"Sounds amazing," said Carlos immediately, warming Cecil's heart. "I'll meet you there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elsewhere: [a solo a-capella recording of Defying Management](http://gwen-chan.tumblr.com/post/96616026812/the-fact-that-my-voice-is-horribly-high-pitched), by gwen-chan!
> 
> If you're wondering how to picture the dancing in "Intern Maureen", check out [the way it was staged in the movie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0QfCIQgD94). All the moves are covered in there at some point.
> 
> Today's songs to the tune of "[Tango: Maureen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFhIo8VOolE)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/rent/tangomaureen.htm)) from _RENT_ (hat tip to Jarenth for the suggestion!), "[Chim Chim Cher-ee (Rooftop Duet)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vjDMjgHaSQ)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/marypoppins/chimchimchereerooftopduet.htm)) from _Mary Poppins_ , "[This Is Halloween](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAXMtUCcp7o)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/nightmarebeforechristmas/thisishalloween.htm)) from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , and "[Who Will Buy?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW6CfSQIzOk)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/oliver/whowillbuy.htm)) from _Oliver!_
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Everyone in town is grimacing to hear of your disgrace / I would roll my eyes right with them if I had eyes or a face / So what have you got to say, Chad? / What have you got to say?_


	14. Act I, tracks 47-52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the mayoral debate! Candidates sing their own praises, some Erikas pop in to do recruitment, and Kevin apologizes for the whole time-traveling-deer incident. Outside the studio, Pamela Winchell is falling back into her impending-retirement depression...until Trish Hidge offers her another encouraging Disney tune.

"Welcome," said Cecil, with sweeping grandeur, "to...the debate!"

In his apartment in the Desert Creek housing development, Chad sat back in his favorite armchair with his most sympathetic My Little Pony figurines and listened to the radio. He'd been looking forward to the Mayoral Debate for ages now. Even though the election would be decided by the whispers emanating from Hidden Gorge, it was important to be an informed voter!

After an ad break, and a press release warning drivers about telepathic time-traveling deer, Cecil finally announced, "Let us get to our opening statements. You have two minutes each, although obviously if you should happen to break into song and it runs overtime, there's nothing we can do to stop it. Faceless Old Woman, you won the snake-entrail toss, you go first."

"About time," said the Faceless Old Woman. "Night Vale, I want to be your mayor. Who better to serve as leader of a town than the one person who lives secretly in the home of every single resident? I know each and every one of you personally. Intimately. Which is why I have to ask...."

A jazzy piano riff backed her up as she demanded:

"What have you got to say, Chad? What have you got to say?"

Chad looked with a start at the radio, then at the shadow hovering just past the fuzzy dark edge of his vision.

"I've been living in your home for your entire life," continued the Faceless Old Woman, both on the radio and out of the corner of his eye. "Your whole floor is strewn with dirty clothes, you never clean your knives. And I know the living spaces of all your apartment's flies — you can't want to live this way, Chad! Can't want to live this way! Why can't you clean up before you go out for a drink? You could comb your hair and put on some cologne for once, I think. And why must you leave your beard hairs, Chad, all scattered in the sink? It's bordering on risqué, Chad! Utterly déclassé!"

Okay, that could still be some other guy named Chad who had all the same habits...but it was probably him.

"Never touch your cereal, no, your diet is absurd. You have all the grace and polish of a dumb non-flying bird. And your MP3 collection is the blandest I have heard! I don't think it's an extreme reaction, thinking of this as a grave infraction! Can you really call this satisfaction? You can't stop feeling lonely talking to your plastic ponies! It's chaos and disarray, Chad! Misery and dismay!"

Chad got up and went to the window, where he called silently to the sky with pleading eyes. It was way too early in the show for call-in questions, but maybe he would get lucky.

The Faceless Old Woman followed him over. "Calling this a shambles is to understate the case! Everyone in town is grimacing to hear of your disgrace. I would roll my eyes right with them if I had eyes or a face! So what have you got to say, Chad? What have you got to say?"

A flock of birds soared overhead, and Chad felt that his question has been received.

He took a deep breath, and, not knowing how long he had until he was disconnected, chanted all in a rush:

"I'm really getting sick of all these slights and accusations, and this weary condescension toward my life and all my plans — my habits when I'm here at home where no one should be watching me — my lack of clear direction and my short attention span. You watch, and I'll come up with something really unexpected that will show you all! Oh, what is this, you don't believe I can? You have my firm assurances that once I've done this ritual, you'll all be reconsidering your callous words today. It's only being put off till I finish with this sewing class, and once I buy some candles, there will be no more delay. I'm confident in saying that you'll all be sorry when it comes — and that, ma'am, in conclusion, ma'am, is all I have to say!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Her statement (and its interruption) over, the Faceless Old Woman retreated to the shadow behind Cecil's shoulder that was not supposed to be there, and drummed her fingertips on the nearest surface, which was also not supposed to be there.

In a section of the studio that had been temporarily warped beyond its normal dimensional capacity, Hiram McDaniels' five heads cleared their throats.

"Ladies, gentlemen, sentient creatures, imagine your perfect Night Vale," began Hiram's gold head. "Close your eyes and imagine what a perfect town would be like. You can’t, can’t you? That’s because you only have one head! I have five! Now, I have my faults — caring too much, debilitating claustrophobia, the occasional lack of control over my fire breathing — but I am still the superior mayoral candidate, because, after all...."

His musical intro came with trombones, and something that whistled.

"A dragon, a dragon: I'm literally a dragon!" sang Hiram's gold head. "A multi-headed, feared and dreaded creature made for flight! I'm happy to be here with you —"

"— delicious puny mites!" hissed his purple head.

And his green head chimed in, "How can you think with just one head? It simply isn't right!"

"It's true, it's true: I'm much more skilled than you!" chorused all five heads. "It's true, it's true! And I could eat you, too!"

Hiram's gold head took back the solo. "Oh, I may not be a perfect creature, but with all my flaws I'll stop at nothing till I run your town and make your laws! A dragon, a dragon — I'm literally a dragon!"

"I know a lot of math and stuff, I'm good to have around," chimed in his blue head.

Glaring at the Faceless Old Woman, his purple head snarled, "I don't go hiding secretly in every home in town."

With a toothy grin his green head added, "If there's a threat, no need to fret, I'll come and burn it down!"

"Vote me, vote me!" the five chorused. "On this we all agree! Vote me, vote me: The choice is plain to see! A dragon, a dragon, I'm literally a dragon —"

"Your human feelings are confusing," screeched his green head.

"But who really cares?" finished his gold head.

His blue head perked up. "I put that in my campaign slogan! Take a look, it's there!"

In a dull voice, his grey head added, "Please vote for me, it just might take the edge off my despair."

The quintet that was Hiram teamed up once more for the final chorus: "Who better to be voting for, who better, better, better, better than a, better than a dragon? A dragon!"

Cecil applauded. Not because he was trying to play favorites! As a newsman, he had to be objective! But doing a five-part harmony with yourself was just so... _mayoral_. What a swell guy Hiram was.

At last, with reluctance (but not much of it, since the third candidate was _so_ rich), Cecil turned to the custom-wrought gilt-bronze podium with the censor bar hovering delicately over the waist region. "Marcus Vansten?"

The naked billionaire looked up from his phone. "Hmm? Yeah?"

"I don't suppose you'd like to make some kind of opening statement?" said Cecil hopefully. "Address the people?"

"Oh, sure, I guess I could do that." Clearing his throat, to the sound of a few chords strung on a single guitar, Marcus sang: "Hi there, I'm Marcus. It doesn't matter if you vote. I'm a billionaire, so we all know that I'm gonna get this...."

The guitar faded.

"Okay, gonna get back to my email now," said Marcus. "Gotta remind my employees just how much I love myself. I think it's a real good motivator."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

After like a _ton_ of other calls, and a news update on the time-traveling deer, which weren't even going to be a problem for much longer, as anyone with even a _tiny_ bit of foresight could tell...Erika's call connected.

"Next caller, you're on the air," announced Cecil, both on the other end of the line and on the portable radio one of the other angels was carrying. "Who is this?"

At the pay phone out back of the Taco Bell, Erika bounced on the balls of their feet. They would have to flee this dimension pretty soon before they attracted attention, but in the meantime, they were on the radio! How cool was that? "This is Erika? With a K? I'm an angel, and I want to talk to Marcus."

"As you know, Erika, angels aren't real," said Cecil. "But go ahead. I'm sure Mr. Vansten will...um, Marcus? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," said a raspy voice. Raspier than usual, even.

"Listeners at home, Marcus is hunched over, head turned away from his microphone." Cecil's voice, usually so firm and objective, was threaded with sympathy. "Marcus? Are you crying?"

"Nope. Not crying," sniffled Marcus. "Next question."

"All right," said Cecil dubiously. "Caller, if you were real, what would your question be?"

Their song started with a folksy harmonica! Wonderful. As everyone learns in seventh-grade transmigration studies, angels _love_ harmonicas.

"Marcus, we've something to ask you," sang Erika. "A question for our time. You say that you're okay and all — but you could become divine. It's rare that angels, real or not, need help, but...now we do. So if you were called on to serve a great good, then would you?"

One of their compatriots leaned on their shoulder and cooed a string of backup notes as they launched into the heart of the matter:

"We need one more angel in heaven! Need one more hand in the fight. Marcus, we have a need for you. It's tough but you're gonna get by."

"There's one less mayoral write-in," sniffled Marcus. "There's one more tear in my eye...."

Trying to be comforting, a chorus of angels gathered around Erika's phone. "But Marcus, the things that you stood for...like gaudy materialism, never die!"

"When I think of the coming battle," continued Erika, "I start feeling concerned. Our enemies are scary bright, and we all? Might get burned! Our hiding now is tribute to how nervous we all are...." They perked up, feeling the telltale signs of Marcus _accepting_ , of a new black glow flickering into being. "But if you stand up when we call, they can only get so far!"

"There's one less mayoral write-in," sang an awed Cecil, watching the transformation in-person. "One less obscenely rich guy...."

"But Marcus, the things that you stood for..." chorused the angels.

"...like...worker exploitation...never die!" finished Erika.

"Carve his name with pride and courage!" sang the chorus.

"And be not afraid!"

As a new tall, gold-feathered, naked Erika appeared beside them, the rest of the angels sang into the phone: "And please make sure his driver and assistants still get paid...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

This debate was turning into a shambles. It was taking all Cecil's prowess as a good host to keep it together.

Then a void-y blue-black portal appeared in the studio, and one of Hiram McDaniels' heads plucked Kevin out of it, and, wow, it was almost like someone had engineered this to be as stressful for Cecil as possible. "You again!" he hissed. "Why are you here? I'm back on the air! You have no right to be in my studio!"

"I don't know why," said Kevin brightly. "I just heard that nice humming again, and saw that familiar white vortex, so I went in, and a dragon pulled me out. And now here I am! Gosh, it's nice to be back here. The more I go back and forth, the more I see that our two towns are connected by more than just a two-lane highway and a lot of corporate ownership! In fact...has your town been seeing a rise in the deer population lately?"

"Yes," said Cecil through gritted teeth. He was trying to keep in mind that Kevin was, according to science, an innocent brainwashed clone and not to blame for any of this. But it was really hard to stay calm while sharing his studio, his professional haven, with the person who had almost certainly been _created to replace him_. "I take it you had something to do with it?"

"Well, not me personally," chirped Kevin. "But sort of! Oh, let's see if I can come up with an easy way to explain this...."

A happy little guitar ditty started up, and right on cue, he jumped in:

" _Doe_ , a deer, a Strex-brand deer —"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

— Before he could get the second line out, somebody shut the Mayoral Radio off.

"Put that back on," ordered Pamela. "I was listening to that."

"Mayor Winchell, I hate to argue," said Trish Hidge, "but I also hate to see you lying on the floor like that."

Pamela raised her head a fraction from her folded elbows. Huh. Sure enough, she was lying facedown on the rug behind her desk, surrounded by bureaucratic forms, mayoral decrees, ceremonial bloodstones, and, buried in the floorboard over there, a hatchet. All organized according to her strict professional system, of course.

"Listening to these debates about who's going to be your replacement isn't in your official Mayoral duties," continued Trish. "Now, I know you like to go above and beyond, and this is probably part of some incredibly sophisticated political strategy the likes of which I can barely hope to grasp, but all I can see is that it's making you upset. And I don't _want_ you to be upset. You deserve to be happy!"

"I'm thrilled. Delighted! Why shouldn't I be?" demanded Pamela from the floor. "I made the decision to retire of my own free will, not because the psychic stress of defending this town has begun to eat away at my soul in potentially catastrophic ways. I am looking forward to having a wonderful, relaxing retirement. And who needs mayoral powers? Being able to turn into a horse was getting boring anyway."

"I completely agree, Mayor!"

Easy for her to say. As Pamela's aide, Trish had all the Mayor's powers herself, and _she_ wouldn't be losing them. Mayoral aides were passed down to each new holder of the office, just like the official mayoral bloodstones, mayoral seal, mayoral podium, and mayoral moss garden.

"About the horse part, anyway. And the part where you're going to have a great time as an ex-mayor."

Pamela was really going to miss that moss garden.

"I'm going to miss the flying part, though."

"What?" asked Pamela, frowning up at her bothersome aide. Who, she couldn't help but notice from this angle, had really nice legs. "You'll still be able to fly. How else are you going to effectively coordinate campaign mailings for the Faceless Old Woman and/or Hiram McDaniels and/or...hm, I guess the candidate who no longer officially exists is out of the running...and/or some previously unmentioned dark horse candidate chosen by Hidden Gorge?"

"Didn't I tell you, Mayor Winchell? On election day, I'm resigning."

For some reason, hearing this news motivated Pamela to get up off the rug. Trish, quitting? Her very best aide, always ready with on-point statistics or screechy defensive loyalty whenever Pamela needed it, and always so cute with those faux-brand-name suits and big doe-eyes? "You can't leave your job! What will you do without it? Without the very purpose that gives your life meaning? How will you survive out there, adrift and alone, after your reti— I mean, your resignation?"

"Well, for perspective, I would rather take a job fighting packs of rabid spiderwolves than work for a Mayor who isn't you," pointed out Trish. "But it won't be that bad! There's a whole big world out there that has nothing to do with mayoral duties."

Pamela snorted. Sure there was.

"I could show you! Do you trust me?"

"What?"

Smiling, Trish held out a hand. "Do you trust me?"

Pamela hesitated, then clasped it. "...Yes."

On the floor under their snappy dress flats, the rug perked up.

"Mayoral powers already include flight," Trish told it. "We aren't going to need you."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

With everyone inside by their radios listening to the debate, Trish and Pamela soared together down the dark and deserted streets of Night Vale.

"I can show you the world," sang Trish, "sans political pressures. Tell me, Mayor, now when did you last put the polls aside?"

A decorative vase of scorpions sat outside the main entrance of the Antiques Mall. Trish swooped low enough to pluck one of the scorpions and offer it to Pamela; she hesitated, then set it cautiously in her hair as a decoration.

"I can help you avoid post-retirement blunders. Show you all of the wonders on a secret cross-town ride! The normal world...! The common person's point of view! No matter what you do, it's just for you — no need for civic scheming...."

"A normal world," echoed Pamela, starting to get into it, as they soared over the treeline of Grove Park. The flames of the Eternal Animal Pyre danced below, lighting them up in red and gold. "No legislation to put through. Worries are left behind, not on my mind — not when I'm in the normal world with you —"

"When I'm in the normal world —!"

Holding hands again, they took a turn for the _up_ , where a hastily-painted black backdrop awaited. They shielded their faces with their free arms, sped up, and crashed straight through the flimsy particle board to the sight of the terrifying star-dotted void beyond.

"Non-unknowable sights!" rang out Pamela's voice, the music hitting a crescendo as they spiraled upward. "Non-soul-tarnishing feelings! Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling through an endless void-dark sky! A normal world...!"

"You'll have so much free time!"

The child of the Glow Cloud floated up to see them, flickering in curious hues of mauve and lilac. Pamela caught it, gave it a hug, then let it go and waved as it fell off behind them. "A hundred hobbies I could try —"

"No more stress, no more meetings —"

"Life like I used to know, so long ago! Can I go back to where I used to be...?"

They dipped earthward, soaring over the lighted rooftops of downtown Night Vale, past the blinking spire of NVCR's radio tower. "The normal world," sang Trish encouragingly.

"No more plastic-bag crimes," mused Pamela.

"No more dark forces to go through."

"No more Blood Space War treaties!"

Swerving and dodging to avoid the lights above the Arby's, they chorused, "Can be someone else's job, when things go wrong, to keep it from affecting me or you...!"

At last they came to settle on a gilded rooftop of the former Marcus Vansten's 46-room hilltop estate. Sitting between a couple of well-cleaned chimneys, they put up their heels and watched all the various light sources flickering over town: some identified, mostly not worth looking into too closely.

"A normal world..." sang Trish, as the surrounding chords settled into something more subtle. Pamela immediately sang it back to her. "That's where we'll be...."

"That's where we'll be...."

"When you retire...?"

"All I'll desire...."

Bending their faces toward each other, they cooed in chorus, "...is you with me...."

(Trish had not planned from the start for this to be a big romantic duet. Not that she was complaining.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves tiny Trish/Pamela flag and waves it high*
> 
> More recordings: [Do You Want To Get A Condo](http://businesscasuallabcoat.tumblr.com/post/97615278571), sung by businesscasuallabcoat!
> 
> The song Kevin starts into (and doesn't get to finish, poor guy) is "[Do-Re-Mi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rgawkL3zhfE)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/soundofmusicthe/doremi.htm)) from _The Sound of Music_.
> 
> Today's songs to the tune of "[What Have You Got To Say, Jeeves?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhVs37OCxrw)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/byjeeves/whathaveyougottosayjeeves.htm)) from _By Jeeves_ , "[I Saw A Dragon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNHKmaFUrs4)" ([lyrics](http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/petesdragon/isawadragon.htm)) from _Pete's Dragon_ , "[Tune Up #3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zGgDWOzDRY)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/rent/tuneup3.htm), nb: they're about suicide) from _RENT_ , "[One More Angel In Heaven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jlVZGrwkD54)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/josephandtheamazingtechnicolordreamcoat/onemoreangelinheaven.htm)) from _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_ , and "[A Whole New World](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQzDVrTyXfU)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/aladdin/awholenewworld.htm)) from _Aladdin_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _Look, I wouldn't know from jolly / But it is our most unfatal time of year_


	15. Act I, tracks 53-56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Night Vale has its own holiday breaks. Christmas-special music and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it has been forever since this updated, but I did want to hold off _some_ Christmas-themed fic updates until it was at least November.
> 
> Characterization point: This fic is sticking with the fanon version of Janice it started with, even though it's been jossed by canon, so she's still an able-bodied eight-year-old. We're also going with a specific fanon version of Janice's mother, and will be sticking with that even if _it_ gets jossed. Any similarities to other fanon versions of Janice's mother is purely incidental (except for the ones that aren't).
> 
> Continuity points: Once again, the teased "next time" song didn't actually happen in this chapter. It didn't come together as hoped -- mea culpa. That said, there are almost certainly just two chapters left in Act 1, and those have been well-planned for a long time, so they should play out exactly as promised. Stick around....

After the terrifying existential nightmare that was the Mayoral Debate, Carlos wanted to do something nice for Cecil. Something exciting. Something joyous and heartwarming and wonderful.

"I'm taking the day off work to drench this house in Christmas decorations," he announced to his team over breakfast at the rental house. "Who wants to join me?"

"I don't think Night Vale really does Christmas," said Rochelle. "It's next week, and the stores still don't have noticeable displays of decorations, candy, ornaments, anything."

(Most people in Night Vale weren't Christian. Or any other religion Carlos had heard of, for that matter. There were just enough believers around to maintain a single church; he knew because it puts ads on the radio sometimes, letting listeners know about potlucks or fundraisers or giant clouds of toxic swamp gas surrounding the building.)

"I was planning on improvising a lot," admitted Carlos. "Pick up a big potted cactus instead of trying to find anything coniferous, make decorations out of reclaimed bone...you know, localize things."

Dave raised his hand. "Uh, I'm Jewish. Do I still get the day off?"

"Oh, sure. No pressure."

"If I say I'm Jewish, can I get out of helping too?" asked Li Hua.

"Everyone is allowed to have the day off, even if they don't help, no matter what the reason," said Carlos firmly. "But I figured you would want to be involved, Li Hua. After all, if we're going to have a serious Night-Vale-style celebration, we're going to need a lot of soft meat crowns. Fresh ones."

The geneticist perked up. "Say no more! Let me get my rifles."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Li Hua was already dismembering her catches in the kitchen by the time Carlos and the others got back from shopping. It had taken a lot of creative repurposing, and visits to half a dozen different stores, but they had a hefty bag or two of merchandise each (some glowing, others humming). Plus, a cactus as tall as Carlos, sporting a thicket of spindly, needle-sprouting arms.

Carlos had hoped they could take care of the whole ponderous trip through a musical montage. No such luck. But when a festive chorus of strings broke out around them as they piled everything in the living room, he knew the decoration itself was going to be a breeze.

"Trim up the house with Christmas stuff — as much as we found at the Ralph's!" chorused all four scientists, each picking up a first round of decorations from the nearest bag and weaving past each other with seamless choreography. "Trim up the eaves with stray moon rocks and feral-plastic fluff!"

"Trim every spied-through window and trim every bloodstone door," crooned Rochelle, tacking up a string of pulsing black leaves and unspeakable cranberries over the front window. "Hang lights with spider silk —"

"— what else are our spiders for?" sang the others.

Li Hua sashayed out of the kitchen, a platter of freshly-boiled circlets in hand, and tossed one onto each colleague's head in time with the rhythm. "Soft meat crowns for every forehead, glowing pillars on the floor!"

"Set up a Christmas cactus hung with tinsel, teeth, and keys," sang Carlos, stringing the assortment of glittery objects around the cactus's limbs. "Christmas comes to Night Vale!"

"Trim you, trim me!" trilled the whole group, twirling up to each other for mutual decoration — Carlos hung some fangs from Rochelle's collar while she wound a makeshift wreath over his shoulders.

"Put up some angel ornaments! Light candles with some winter scents —"

A reproachful knock on the door.

Carlos threw it open, and planted a jingling reindeer-antler headband over the balaclava of the Sheriff's secret police officer, as his team sang encouragement behind him: "Trim up the cop who comes around to take the angels down!"

For a verse they split up by vocal pitch, the tenor/baritone half of the group starting them off: "Trim up our house in Night Vale from the cellar to the roof! Hang up a mean stone idol...."

"...and give him a hat or two!" sang the whole team, as the grouchy idol now sitting on the TV table found itself wearing a Santa hat and a big white fake beard.

The soprano/alto half of the scientists finished: "Pay respects to Mayor Winchell: put up lots of bright balloons!"

Sashaying up to a red-and-green balloon arch, Carlos stopped to pin a sprig of mistletoe at the top. "To making homes in Night Vale, though we're still Outsiders too! Christmas comes on Wednesday —"

"— trim me, trim you!" finished the team, as someone clipped a fake poinsettia into his hair. "Trim up the house with Christmas stuff, as much as we found at the Ralph's! Trim up the eaves with stray moon rocks and feral-plastic fluff...hang on the cactus stray moon rocks and fluff!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"...so, long story short, Carlos is inviting us all over for a holiday dinner," said Cecil. "He swears it's a _safe_ holiday, but I'm going to check the place out tonight and make sure. You know Carlos has weird ideas about safety sometimes — afraid of weird sucking growths that appear mysteriously on your ceiling, but show him a deer and he doesn't bat an eye —" The action on the court interrupted, grabbing his attention. "Yes — go, go, hit her in the kneecaps if you have to, you'll be open for a pass in two seconds — YES!"

"Cecil, sit _down_ , you are embarrassing me," implored Delphine. "Janice understands that her uncle loves her. You do not need to make the loudest fuss in the stands to prove it."

Cecil sank back onto the bleachers, clutching his handmade Night Vale Flesh-Eating Spaniels pennant and watching the gaggle of eight-year-olds run around with the basketball, including his brilliant and precious niece. "Someone should be making a fuss over her! It's not like _Steve Carlsberg_ could be bothered to show up."

"My caring and dependable Steve comes to every one of Janice's games that he can. You know that. Today he had to do something with Renée, that's all."

"Oh," said Cecil. "Well, he's still a jerk who isn't good enough for you."

His baby sister (alert, stately, and as glamorous on a day-to-day basis as Cecil only got when he took the time to dress up) tsked. "Cecil...."

"He isn't! Anyone can tell that just by looking at you — you could walk through a tornado and come out with your makeup still perfect — that clip thing in your hair matches your ring _and_ the decoration on your pumps — while _Steve_ is a slob who can't even pick out a decent pair of shoes to save his life."

"Steve got me _these_ shoes for our last anniversary. Now, is he invited to this little get-together of yours?"

Sulking, Cecil stared at the toes of his own hi-tops. "...Yes."

"Then you know what you have to do."

Judging by the stern marching beat, she meant business.

"Don't argue with my husband, don't argue with my husband, don't argue with my husband on a dinner night!" sang Delphine. "The Council will survive it if Steve should criticize it! So don't you fight my husband on a dinner night! Gripe about his scones; pick apart his short notation. Say he should atone for his sins of punctuation. But do it alone — don't bother your relations!"

All the basketball parents (and Cecil's fellow parents-adjacent) were bobbing their heads to the beat.

"Carry on, old man! Do your best to do your worst. Yell about his van. Say his bowling must be cursed. Trash him all you can...but do go elsewhere first!"

"Do go elsewhere first!" chorused the rest of the parents, a constellation of fingers shaking at Cecil.

"Don't argue with my husband, don't argue with my husband, don't argue with my husband on a dinner night! Go on about his, quote, 'crimes' in late-night or in prime-time — but don't you fight my husband on a dinner night!"

"But don't you fight her husband on a dinner night!" echoed the rest of the group.

Delphine squeezed Cecil's arm. "You know the missile tests aren't secret in the least — but can't you humor him once in a while? The government is managing its cover-ups. They do not need you telling Steve to shut up! Your feelings do not give you license to be mean — so don't you make a scene, don't let it show. My Steve believes he's on a mission. I'm not asking that you listen — simply let it go!"

"No, no, no, no, no!" chanted the parents, now in a full-fledged dance of synchronized arm movements. "Don't argue with her husband, don't argue with her husband, don't argue with her husband on a dinner night!"

"You might think it unfair, but you'll simply have to bear it!"

"Politeness, now!" intoned her backup singers. "Don't fight him now! Don't argue with her husband on a di-i-in-ner night!"

The music shut off with a decisive final chord.

Cecil swallowed, waited until everyone else's attention was back on the basketball game, then hissed under his breath, "I reserve the right to yell at him if he does one of his stupid impressions."

"I suppose that's fair," said his sister. "Well, I will certainly let him know...ah! That's it, you're on — do _not_ let her take it, darling — haha! Perfect! That's my girl!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Putting up Christmas decorations, it appeared, had started to affect the scientists' rental house in unexpected ways.

Presents seeped out of nowhere and gathered around the cactus. One of them was made of solid grey metal, two were leaking a sludgy black substance from the corners, and at least one kept rattling. The mistletoe Carlos put up began growing roots into the ceiling — he wasn't sure if normal mistletoe had thorns, but this sprig popped three balloons with them as it grew. Oh, and a small blizzard had taken up residence in the first-floor bathroom. Rochelle had to take an ice pick to the cabinet to get her meds out.

It was all scientifically fascinating. Carlos couldn't wait to show Cecil.

On a nice warm desert-December evening, his boyfriend came down by the house after the show. "Carlos, are you aware that there are deer on your roof?"

"Don't worry, they're inflatable. We don't know where they came from, but so far they're even more harmless than the real thing," said Carlos. "C'mon in and have a look around."

The background orchestra started almost as soon as Cecil stepped across the threshold.

It was soft and tentative at first, then picked up in urgency as Cecil started to move, darting from the gifts to the holly wreaths to the tinsel-draped TV to the blinking red lights (and green ones, and blue ones, and yellow ones, and pink ones) tacked winding their way up the staircase railing. Everything got a sharp, keen-eyed inspection. Horns joined the instrumental ensemble.

He came to a stop in front of a wall hanging — a row of snowmen, handmade from the finest cheap craft store ingredients — and half-sang, half asked..."What's this — what's this? There's plastic everywhere. What's this?" Toward the bathroom door: "A freezing gust of air? — what's this?" Pointing to the nearest wreath. "The leaves of plants that never grow in deserts, so how are they growing there? What's this?"

Twirling on his heel, he went to interrogate a bookshelf with a new row of candles running along the top.

"What's this — what's this? It's all in green and red. What's this? It smells like gingerbread — what's this?" He followed a string of lights along the wall. "The house is strung with little lights, all blinking, hung in spiderwebs and twinkling — not sure what I should be thinking, what is this? What's this?"

Carlos trailed along behind as Cecil went to investigate the bathroom directly. It had three inches of cold powdery whiteness on the floor, which Cecil waded a few steps into — and the tenacious suspicion on his face melted briefly into plain and simple wonder.

"You've summoned up a snowfall — I've never been in snow," he sang, turning to Carlos. "It's cold, but somehow, standing here, our cheeks are all aglow!" Casting a glance back out at the rest of the first floor: "The tacky decorations seem to have a lot of heart — and I don't think they're hungry, which is always a good start...!"

He caught sight of something else, and he was off again, skidding to a stop underneath it and looking up. "Oh, look — what's this?"

Carlos was right behind him. "When under mistletoe — you kiss."

"I like the sound of that — but wait! You're sure that there's no risk we'd bring the house down, like we would on Valentine's?" When Carlos nodded: "That's great!"

He dropped a quick peck on Carlos's lips before making his way into the kitchen: now with vaguely-seasonal magnets all over the fridge, a container of soft meat crowns stored in the freezer, and a row of cookie tins lined up on the counter.

"What's this? In here? You're baking, oh, that's sweet." He picked up a gingerbread man. "Hang on. Were these ones made with wheat? Not good! But still, if that's a problem, I can't say that it comes from the holiday — it's just an average broken law, so, now, correct me if I'm wrong — this looks like fun, this looks like fun, and it just might be safe for kids! — What's this?"

He had stumbled upon — no, _into_ — a pair of green pointed elf slippers. Carlos had no idea if they belonged to one of the scientists, or if they had clawed their way out of the same extradimensional holiday void as the blow-up reindeer.

"Oh my, what now? It comes with fashion, too? And how! Look, bells are on my shoes!" Cecil spun on his toes. "They ring! And it is not destroying things to wear them — think I'll share that we can celebrate in relative protection...What's this!"

He skipped up to Carlos, clasping Carlos's shoulders.

"The warning signs are missing, no disasters to be found," sang Cecil warmly, resting his forehead against Carlos's. "A small one might come later, but I'm sure you'll keep the house! No need for plastic sheeting or emergency supplies. This just might be a holiday we won't fight for our lives...!"

Carlos looped his arms around Cecil's waist, and they danced in circles around the tree, jingling all the way.

"The sights, the sounds: they're everywhere and all around! I never have felt so relaxed at oncoming festivities — say, what is a nativity? — I'm so excited that you did this, you don't even know! When can we start, when can we start, when does the party come around? What...is...this!"

Well, would you look at that. Carlos had gotten something exactly Night-Vale-right. For once. "Party is on the 25th," he said warmly. "And we're going for classy, so wear your furriest pants."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Delphine Strozzi Palmer-Carlsberg had never celebrated an Outsider holiday before, but she did a little research, went shopping, and had a series of matching wine-red dresses with gold trim for herself and her girls by the date of the party. She even got a matching sash to accessorize Steve's fanciest black tunic.

Most of the scientists weren't quite as dressed up, although Cecil's boyfriend had put on a beautiful formal-wear lab coat for the occasion. ("It's a _suit_ ," protested Carlos, when Delphine admired the cut. "It just happens to be a tasteful shade of ivory, and have a long-ish jacket, and...okay, you know what, forget it. It's a formal-wear lab coat.")

Cecil himself, dapper in forest-green velvet, couldn't gush enough over Janice and Renée. He lifted Janice onto his shoulders to get a closer look at the high-up decorations, and she ended up riding him around (taking care not to knock off his soft meat crown) until the buffet was uncovered. At that point Delphine made it mandatory that everyone fill their plates from on the ground, instead of on their uncle.

The trouble with relocating Janice was, it meant Cecil could no longer be distracted by his niece, and had to deal with the fact that Steve (earnest, crusading Steve!) was in the same room.

They managed to eat most of a meal without incident. Carlos helped Delphine steer Cecil into conversation with the other scientists, so he only got in a few minor jabs at Steve: the kind Steve politely ignored by pretending not to notice. (Steve was _so_ sweet. And so endlessly patient.) 

As the girls were picking over their well-stocked plates of dessert, and Carlos was explaining to Delphine the cultural significance of pointy shoes with bells on, they both heard Cecil burst out with something louder:

"Of _course_ Santa isn't real. _Everyone knows_ Santa is really a population of heavily-sedated and costumed bears, managed by the CIA. You're not saying anything new here, _Steve_."

Delphine shot a quick look at the girls. Renée was old enough to know about the Santa thing, and Janice was too preoccupied trying to use candy canes like chopsticks to be listening. Good. "Carlos, is there by any chance some Christmas television you could introduce the girls to? And take them out of the room in the process?"

"Uh, I could find some specials on Netflix, sure."

"Perfect." Delphine swished over to the couch where her daughter and stepdaughter were sitting. "All right, darlings, gather up your plates and follow Uncle Carlos. He's going to show you some of the traditional television of his people."

So Carlos had the girls safely out of the room by the time Cecil really started getting in Steve's face.

Delphine slipped between them on the pretense of needing to fix her big brother's collar. She wasn't above grabbing it and shaking him if necessary, but she hoped it wouldn't come to that. "Cecil. You did promise."

Cecil grimaced. "That was before he started throwing around dangerous truths!"

"Did you ever consider it likely that he wouldn't?"

"Just because he _never_ knows how to behave doesn't mean I should put up with it!" exclaimed Cecil. "Of course I have to react when he starts being careless with your safety. How can I do any less?"

"I am not a child anymore, Cecil! I am a grown woman, I am a parent, I have passed all the same tests of adulthood you have. Including the ones with the bladed weapons! Now, you _will_ make nice with my husband, or one of us will leave. Which will it be?"

She stepped aside, leaving Cecil to face Steve again. Cecil's face was stony, unrepentant. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Judging by the sudden crash of drums, and the dramatic spotlights from the glowing pillars placed around the floor, this was going to be confrontational.

"Now, I didn't mean to call you an un-American jerk...though you are an un-American jerk," intoned Cecil, voice resonating off the walls. "And I didn't mean to call you a human disaster...though I think you are a human disaster. My mom, she vanished into thin air. She left me with my sister — not much more! I had my Voice, I had a dream — so I've worked full-time, since I was sixteen — for my sister. My little sister!"

A lone trumpet wailed as Cecil paced toward Steve, then circled around him like a stalking cat. Steve turned in place to keep up, while the scientists scattered to the corners of the room.

"Followed the law, and I toed all the lines," crooned Cecil, over an accusatory piano.

"I can't help knowing," protested Steve.

"We both stayed careful, and we both grew up fine!"

Steve held up his hands. "Can't fake not seeing!"

"You can't put her at risk here —"

"That's her job to decide!" sang Steve.

Cecil sliced a hand through the air, cutting him off. "You think I would take that as an excuse if she died?"

It made Steve start to back up. "Listen, there's something you just don't understand...."

"Oh yeah, I understand you're a dangerous man!"

Steve sang sotto voice, appeasing. "I love your sister, really I do...."

Cecil backed him straight into an armchair, music swelling. "You think I've missed that? Or missed — that she loves you? But here in Night Vale...!"

The instruments dropped to a background hum, opening the way for a spoken interlude. With one hand planted on the chair, Cecil used the other to push back some of his dark hair, revealing a dime-sized scar left by re-education electrodes. "How many of these do you have? No, don't answer, I don't even want to know. Either way, the Sheriff's secret police have been soft on you. The people they take don't always come back! Del was supposed to have two brothers looking out for her, and instead she only has one, and for all I know, that could be why!"

Angry drums, a jazzy horn section. Delphine and Carlos watched from opposite ends of the room, both outside the range of the spotlights, holding their breaths.

"The danger is deep that you wanna put her in. I don't care about you, but she's my sister!" belted out Cecil. "I'm a peace-loving man — a soldier not at all — but you can bet I'll protect my baby sister! Oh, oh, she's my one remaining flesh and blood! Be careful with the one I love! She's my sister...!"

Delphine waited until she was sure the music had finished before stepping in. Cecil allowed himself to be pulled into an embrace, though he kept glaring daggers at Steve until she put a hand on his cheek and gently but firmly turned him away.

"I don't think I've appreciated how much it bothers you," she said softly. "Having a brother removed from your memory, I mean."

"Doesn't it bother _you?_ " asked Cecil. "Knowing that you could have had more than just me?"

"Many things bother me," said Delphine. "Others do not. All of this feels very different to me than it does to you. I was only six when Mother and our missing sibling disappeared — I don't remember her like you do, and it seems unlikely that I would remember him either, even if no outside force had intervened. As far as I am concerned, I have only ever had one brother. And he is the only one I need."

("Awwww," cooed the scientists.)

Swallowing, Cecil rested his head on her shoulder. "Del...thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Trim Up The Tree](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-5SevCO1cs)" ([lyrics](http://christmas-specials.wikia.com/wiki/Trim_Up_the_Tree)) from _How The Grinch Stole Christmas!_ , "[Don't Tamper With My Sister](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3JppJcc_tI)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/onacleardayyoucanseeforever/donttamperwithmysister.htm)) from _On A Clear Day You Can See Forever_ , "[What's This?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yd8t1f1U2xs)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/n/nightmarebeforechristmas.htm)) from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , and "[She's My Sister](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DmNjAA59Lg4)" ([more muffled version including the opening lines](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0IFZDUCqck0)) ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/memphis/shesmysister.htm)) from _Memphis_.
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _This is the man that I plan to move in with / Isn't he fine_


	16. Act I, tracks 57-59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the Orange Grove debacle, Night Vale may be waking up to Strexcorp's dangers...and generalizing that to all outsiders, to Hannah and Lucy's dismay. Lauren, meanwhile, encourages her company to double down on its discipline. And in the middle of all this, Cecil and Carlos — at long last! — get their big duet.

The town-wide incursion of Strex-brand transdimensional oranges was terrifying. Lucy Gutierrez, listening to the chatter at the Ralph's when she stopped in to pick up some incense and toothpaste, consoled herself that at least this might be a turning point in some people's minds. It might convince her fellow citizens that Strex was evil.

And if that got more of them taking meals at the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, well, good. They needed the business. Even making burgers out of the Book Club's donated meat only went so far.

Everything was promising until Lucy overheard someone in the next aisle saying, "You know what the _real_ problem is, though. It's the fact that we let outsiders in our town in the first place!"

"They don't understand us," agreed a solemn second voice. "Don't respect local traditions. They're bad, outsiders."

"We've gone soft," declared the first, emboldened. "Been soft for years now. Should've put our feet down back when those scientists showed up. Kick them and their trucks full of strange humming equipment right back out to Route 800."

This had gone on far enough. Lucy grabbed a six-pack of fire, dropped it in her bag, and rounded the end of the aisle. "Gentlemen. You were saying?"

The first man — Lucy recognized him as James Crawford-Rothwell, associate professor of alternate history at Night Vale Community College — was happy to bring the light of his conversational thesis to a new listener. "Ah, Lucy! I was just saying, if we here in Night Vale had had the common sense to shut our town to all foreign interlopers years ago —"

His companion — Nazr al-Mujaheed, football coach at the local high school — cleared his throat to cut the man off. "He didn't mean you, Lucy. You're a _good_ outsider."

James looked between Lucy and Nazr's faces in startled confusion. "Wait — you're not from around here? But you seem so...normal."

"After two decades, I hope I've gone native enough not to stand out," said Lucy. "And honestly, the scientists are adapting a lot faster than I did. Don't get me wrong, I am delighted that you've started thinking about standing up to Strexcorp! But that's no excuse to throw the baby out with the ceremonial shroud."

Nazr nodded to James. "See. She's a good outsider."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"They said _what_ about you?" exclaimed Hannah, when her wife mentioned the incident that night as they were changing for bed. "I should go right down to al-Mujaheed's house tomorrow morning and yank out his tongue. I don't care how long it would take! And Crawford-Rothwell, that smug little — I won't even waste my time with him, just tell Cecil the man compared his boyfriend to Strexcorp, and let nature take its course."

"Oh, you wouldn't really," breathed Lucy. Sure, there were some people who deserved crushing under the full force and power of an angry community radio host (like the barber who, as a joke, gave Carlos a haircut that marked him as a willing ritual sacrifice to the Reptilians. That level of Outsider-bullying had to be stopped). But James wasn't cruel or malicious. Just kind of dumb.

"I wouldn't." Hannah finished dabbing off her mascara. "But I would like to. People have no right to talk about you that way, _preciosa_."

Lucy pulled on a silk nightgown. "You say that as if it happens a lot."

"Not a lot," said Hannah quickly.

"But sometimes."

Hannah didn't answer.

"On a regular basis...?"

A single piano line started up in the background.

"I am so sorry about my town," sang Hannah gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and putting a comforting hand on Lucy's thigh. "Overreacting in such a way. But together you and I will laugh at this fight some day...."

Lucy grimaced. "Ice cream...."

Hannah raised her eyebrows, listening.

"I've made them ice cream," sang Lucy, elaborating. "Non-fatal ice cream: imagine that. Ice cream — I know their orders — who won't eat insects, who takes low-fat...!" The tempo picked up with every line, as did her frustration. "Money — they'll give me money — but not respect! Why is that the deal? Will insults never cease, will slander never cease — it's been a most frustrating day! Will put-downs never cease, disgraces never cease —"

"It isn't fair," agreed Hannah firmly. She re-sang the lines of her apology in a hurry, trying to find the place where she'd left off, then picked up: Our loyal patrons, they know that's wrong. I've heard them saying that you seem cursed." She coughed. "...That you seem nice. An interloper hardly at all...oh my." When Lucy gave her a hurt look, Hannah gave up. "I am so sorry about my town."

Lucy took over, the piano picking back up and ringing out in indignation as her voice gained strength. "This town can be so vicious. Sure, Strex deserves it, but even so! Night Vale should be my home now — but is it really? I just don't know!"

She got up again, stopping at the windowsill and looking out over the darkened street.

"Sometimes I'd like to move back to California, out by the sea," she sang. "Where skies are always blue, and rain sometimes comes through, and forests don't have talking trees! As strange as it would seem, we still could chase our dreams: there's no one you can't sell non-fatal ice cream...!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Nobody at the meeting of the Greater Desert Bluffs Metropolitan Area Regional Security Council for the town of Night Vale was aware of the underlying intra-town tensions. Which was good, because let's face it: if they'd had any idea how to competently turn different factions of locals against each other, Night Vale would have been doomed.

Instead, the leaders of Strex's various operations were the ones turning against each other. Nobody wanted to end up with the blame for the debacle that was the failed J.P.'s O.J. marketing scheme.

And Lauren Mallard was starting to feel like the room's favorite scapegoat.

"The turning point was when one of _your_ employees started broadcasting consumer safety alerts, wasn't it?" said the Marketing Representative, narrowing his eyes across the table at her. "Isn't it your job to censor that kind of thing?"

"It did get censored!" exclaimed Lauren. "You should've seen the details I cut! But Palmer snuck just enough through in the form of emails from his boyfriend. I can't be expected to review every word of those. It isn't humanly possible."

The Regional Security Director folded her arms. "That's what we have biomachines for."

"Tried that last month. The overwhelming syrupy mundanity shorted out Daniel's motherboard. Took three hours to get him back online." Lauren turned to the Science Liaison from Strexcorp Labs. "This never would have happened if Carlos and his scientists hadn't managed to do so much incriminating research."

The Science Liaison raised her eyebrows. "My dear Ms. Mallard, if Strexcorp only ever produced safe and beneficial products, we wouldn't have needed to buy the media in the first place."

"I'm not suggesting we should make all our products _safe for consumers_ ," said Lauren acidly. "What do you think I am, some kind of socialist? My point is that all of you could be cracking down harder on these problems before they get to my desk! Why haven't you bought off those scientists yet? Or, if they won't take the money, threatened them? Or both!"

The Marketing Representative was starting to nod in agreement. The Regional Security Director looked thoughtful.

Lauren turned on the Director. "Speaking of threats. A bunch of little girls are still walking all over you. We bought the Sheriff's secret police! We can make the law in this town! Why aren't children against the law yet? Why are they still running around, with their municipally-underwritten book-lending and their age-inappropriate helicopter-piloting skills and their un-Smiling-Godly bloodstone circles? Sure, we've banned those awful stones from all Strex-owned buildings, but that doesn't cover all of town. Not yet, anyway."

And she wasn't done there. The Marketing Representative was not getting off the hook.

"I bet a lot of this could have been avoided if you'd had a more comprehensive global marketing strategy in the first place. If even half the parents in this town had been convinced to transfer their children to Strex-operated private schools, instead of just shopping at Strex subsidiaries and filling their homes with Strex products, how many of these precocious little rebels could we have crushed before they got started?"

"Children are the future," allowed the Representative. "But all our projections show that investing in oil, mining, and blind devotion to the Smiling God are going to be most profitable in the long run."

"That requires us having a company in the long run!"

The Science Liaison shook her head. "You overestimate how much of a problem this town's rebels are."

It got a polite cough from the Regional Security Director. "She really doesn't."

"I really don't," agreed Lauren. "I work with one of them every day, and I can tell you...."

An ominous chorus of trumpets and horns backed her up as she got to her feet.

"This town, you see, has long been reeking —" (The Science Liaison tried to interrupt.) "Quiet, peons, when I'm speaking!"

All of her colleagues shut up.

Lauren took a deep breath, let it out through her nose, then continued her solo. "Reeking with an unproductive scent. They try to hide so you won't smell it, but I've picked it up by now: It is the odor of rebellion, it's the bouquet of dissent!" She glared at each of her associates in turn, placing a hand on her heart. "Don't just sit back and hector this director for this faction of objectors, all so olfactorily insulting. You want to stop the stench's spread? Then we must think and plan ahead, to sort the merely rank from the revolting!"

She began to pace around the table, flashing a toothy grin of anticipation at each fellow Strexcorp division manager in turn.

"The smell of rebellion comes out in the sweat: let's make laws to get them sweating. Then it won't be long before we smell the pong of aiding and abetting! We must make examples of those who have their heads full of rebellious thoughts. Show them who's calling the shots, pull the noose just a little bit tighter. The smell of rebellion...."

In the back of her mind she could almost hear the awful little band of children chanting as they ran through slingshot drills in the sand wastes. _One, two, three, four...._

"The stench of revolt...the reek of insubordination," crooned Lauren. "The whiff of resistance, the pong of dissent, the funk of mutiny in action...."

_Finished this book, give me more! One, two, three, four...aim just right!_

"Like children's teeth when growing in uneven, you really need to force them into line." Lauren smacked the back of the Regional Security Director's chair. "That means you! Push them straight, make them smile, lock them in single file, and make them swear they're fine!"

_One, two, three four...we'll take this fight! One, two, three, four...._

"The whiff of insurgence, the stench of intent, the reek of pre-pubescent protest! The funk of defiance, the odor of coup, the waft of anarchy in progress...!"

_We won't take it any more!_

"We have got to get a move on for the Smiling God's approval! Some double-time discipline, so imperfections won't get in...!" belted out Lauren, trying to drown out that stupid kiddie background chorus with sheer vocal power. And it seemed to work! "All right, let's step it up," she declared, this time addressing her invisible orchestra. "Double-time."

Why hadn't she tried to control her songs before? They were taking over everything else in Night Vale; why shouldn't the weather itself bow to their will?

Sure enough, the instruments kept up as Lauren half-sang, half-chanted twice as fast as before. "One, two, three, four: Discipline, discipline! For citizens not listening, employees who are dissidents and sneaking insubordination in oration from our station — need a permanent vacation, or at least a greater state of discipline! Let's order, not request, to get perfection and get discipline, rejecting this direction where the skeptics and objectors win: use all the weapons in our deck, neglected though the bulk have been, till we correct the local lack of discipline!"

This was _fun_.

"The Smiling God non-worshipping, the loving of imperfect things, protestors using weapons: it's an issue we can fix! We'll have to work together better, but the answer is no mystery: it's discipline, discipline, discipline! The smell of rebellion, the stench of revolt, the reek of pre-pubescent plotting! The whiff of resistance, the pong of dissent, the funk of moral fiber rotting...!" 

Pulling back the chair of the Committee Head himself, Lauren swung around to sit across his lap. 

"Imagine a world where we've won this," she crooned, putting an arm around him and using her free hand to cover his black-on-black eyes. "Close your eyes and just...dream. Imagine. Come on, try it: the peace and the quiet, the blinding sunbeams...."

Golden spotlights came out of nowhere, falling across the head of the conference table. Maybe that was just more weather, but Lauren liked to think of it as a sign of the favor of a Smiling God. She totally deserved to be the favorite.

"Now imagine this small hamlet bulldozed," she sang on, carried away by the rhapsody. "A new city built on these plains: its buildings perfect, and each room bedecked with the rebels' imperfect remains...! Where we can pray to achieve our potential! Yes! And have it fulfilled every day. Yes! The Smiling God's form will descend, keep us warm, and show us the way...!"

Glazed expressions of happiness had settled over every face. Dappled sunlight played over the walls and the tabletop.

Until Lauren grabbed the Committee Head's blood-red tie and barked, "But we can't have that till we hold the rebels under our control!"

Postures straightened all around the room as their soloist got back to her feet.

"No matter how inefficient they seem, they're dangerous when in a team!" Lauren was actually climbing up onto the table now, jet-black heels clicking a neat path between water glasses and StrexPens. "Have you ever seen anything more repellent? Have you ever smelled anything worse than that smell of rebellion —"

At last her colleagues were on board, chanting a background chorus: "Discipline, discipline, no more sidestepping — children need discipline, corporate safekeeping."

"— the stench of revolt? The reek of insubordination!"

"If you're mischieving, she'll sniff you out — Girl and Boy Scouts will be out of protection."

"The whiff of resistance — the pong of dissent —"

"Discipline, discipline, no soft-pedaling — children need discipline, maybe some beheading?"

"And we will not stop till they are squashed!" sang Lauren from above them, highlighted by unnatural sunbeams and angry saxophones. "Till this rebellion is quashed! Till sunny, perfect discipline has washed this sickening scent...away!"

A final blast of horns closed her out.

In the awed silence that followed, the Committee Head cleared his throat. "Sounds to me like someone deserves a promotion. I'm going to write a memo to Senior Management right now, saying that your talents are being grossly underused."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Cecil and Carlos were, in turn, oblivious to the increased levels of doom now being plotted by Strex-employed regional managers all over town. They drifted awake with no more cares or fears for their lives than usual, together in Carlos's room in the scientists' rented house. Cecil was up first, and idly ran his fingers through Carlos's hair (it was getting so _long_ , it was wonderful) until Carlos's eyes opened.

"Hi," said Cecil warmly. "You want breakfast?"

Carlos yawned. "S'long as it doesn't have orange juice."

Cecil stroked his hair one more time, then crawled out from under the sheets and sat on the edge of the mattress, striped nightshirt hanging loosely around his knees.

"This is the man that I plan to move in with — isn't he fine?" he trilled, to an unseen audience. "I used to stay locked away at the station all of the time. But now, to my delight, I've found the new light of my life. There's just one problem, I...." He trailed off (a curious little flute filled the pause), then shook his head. "I’ll never tell."

Carlos, too, sat up: dashingly handsome in the long white bathrobe he kept insisting was _not_ a fluffy bedtime lab coat. "He is the one: fascinating and fun, mysterious and strange," he sang, putting an arm around Cecil. "Once I was wary, scared, unprepared — he helped that to change! Can't ever let him go. Not when there's so much I don't know. The only thing is...no." He gave Cecil a quick cuddle. "I’ll never tell."

Gazing tactfully at anything but each other, they chorused, "'Cause there's nothing to tell...."

They got out of bed and trailed down the hall. (Thanks to a brief dip into montage time, when they stepped out the door they were both fully dressed, from glasses to shoes.)

The tempo had subtly changed by the time they got to the kitchen, where Cecil found himself singing: "His fugues."

"His stewing," sang Carlos, a few steps ahead.

Cecil shuddered as Carlos opened a box of muffins. "And have you heard his chewing?"

Carlos held a bran-marscapone muffin to his ear like a phone. "Leaves voicemails in this cooing that I can't transcribe."

Pouring coffee, Cecil added, "I talk, he tunes out..."

Carlos nodded to the patch of teal sky visible through the window. "He gets mad when the moon's out."

"...then claims something needs doing at the lab all night!"

"The vibe gets kind of scary," they crooned in tandem, from opposite corners of the kitchen.

"Like it's only temporary," filled in Carlos.

"Like I'm being too contrary," added Cecil ruefully.

Carlos pulled on a stray lock of hair. "Like it's just because I'm hairy —

At last they spun to face each other, and Cecil handed over one of the coffee mugs. "— but it's all very well!" they chorused, clinking them together. "The beams know I'll never tell!"

While Carlos mixed potato pancake batter at the counter, Cecil sliced bananas on the table...and, presently, jumped into another verse. "He clings to science, and talks up self-reliance: it's really just a license to run off when he wants."

"He clings. He's needy," sang Carlos, pouring the batter into a frying pan. "His spice rack makes me queasy. He never—"

Cecil popped up next to him. "His clothes are seedy!"

"This is my verse, come on!" cried Carlos. "He—"

Cecil grabbed his hand. "No time! This is a dance number now!"

They launched into a strange pseudo-tango dance, circling in and out of the kitchen, with neatly-choreographed pauses to flip the pancakes. Cecil was delighted to find it really did kick them into the next verse. Or maybe it was a bridge. Or the chorus? The important thing was, when the next measure began (and they got to wield matching plates of pancakes with sliced fruit), it was smoother, softer, and a lot more complimentary.

"You know..." they sang together, finishing the sentence with overlapping harmonies: "Just want you near, oh—" "—my science hero."

Carlos raised his mug to Cecil. "The most interesting person I have ever lived or worked with, and I'm sure that that will never change...!"

A flash of montage time, and they were standing on opposite sides of the dishwasher, putting their empty plates in the rack. Their fingertips brushed along the way. Romantic violins played them in.

"You're swell," sang Cecil.

"You're sweller," sang Carlos.

Cecil pulled away and leaned back against his side of the counter, hugging himself. "You'll always be my fella."

Carlos did the same, gazing at the wall. "That's why I’ll never tell ya that I’m petrified."

"I've tried — my hardest," mused Cecil. "But I know you're the smart one. You talk too fast and I start feeling lost inside...."

"I lied...! I said it's easy," they trilled in soft duet, walking up to each other. "I’ve tried...but there's these fears I can't quell."

Carlos turned aside. "Just how often have I let him down?"

Cecil did the same, leaning against Carlos's back. "Is he really okay in this town?"

"If I miss another date, will he get even more resentful?"

"If he finds out all about me, will he move somewhere without me?"

"Am I crazy —"

"— am I stupid —"

"— will we hate it when we move in?"

"We could make cohabitation twenty new kinds of hell — so, thank the beams, I won't tell!" They were in harmony again, shuffle-stepping out of the room together. "I swear that I’ll never tell!"

"Drank to forget," trilled Cecil.

"I take the fifth," agreed Carlos.

Cecil waved imaginary observers away. "Nothing to see. Move it along."

They came to a stop in the front hall, hands laced together, gazing into each other's eyes. "I'll never — tell!"

For a few beats after the final chord, there was dead silence.

Carlos's expression was frozen uncomfortably in place. Cecil had a feeling his own facial muscles were doing the same thing. Neither one wanted to be the first one to talk.

Well, talking was Cecil's job, which meant the onus probably fell on him.

"So," he said. "That happened."

Carlos nodded. "Yes. Yes, it did."

"And it was a duet."

"Scientifically speaking, that is what it was."

"We could...sit down and have an emotionally honest conversation about everything we just sang," suggested Cecil.

His boyfriend grimaced. "We could do that."

Cecil swallowed. "Or...we could panic, flee to our respective workplaces, and avoid communicating for the rest of the day in a desperate attempt to pretend like it never happened."

Carlos breathed a sigh that sounded exactly as relieved as Cecil felt. "I'm okay with the panicked fleeing option if you are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Vanilla Ice Cream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3XCdM-2Vic)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/shelovesme/vanillaicecream.htm)) from _She Loves Me_ , "[The Smell of Rebellion](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8B9yfdR8po)" ([lyrics](http://www.allmusicals.com/lyrics/matilda/thesmellofrebellion.htm)) from _Matilda_ (suggested, ages ago, by chess_ka), "[I'll Never Tell](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2cOkvrBbfw)" ([lyrics](http://faculty.fmcc.suny.edu/mcdarby/Pages/BuffyLyrics.htm#I%27LL%20NEVER%20TELL)) from the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ episode "Once More With Feeling."
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
>  _How do you connect in an age when strangers, landlords, lovers, your own bloodstones betray?_


	17. Act I, tracks 60-61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Lauren in charge of NightVale operations, Strex starts playing hardball. The town reacts with a showstopper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of recordings I've neglected to link: [Good Morning Night Vale](http://anotherdearlistener.tumblr.com/post/100440815756/i-did-a-thing-its-a-fairly-okay-thing) and [Do You Want To Get A Condo?](http://anotherdearlistener.tumblr.com/post/100442742616/im-just-going-to-sing-all-of-carlos-songs) by anotherdearlistener! Also, sketchy scene from the Christmas chapter: [Fancy Dress Lab Coat](http://erinptah.deviantart.com/art/Fancy-Dress-Lab-Coat-497590415).
> 
> Chapter contains police/authoritarian violence, and (canonical) character death.

There was a new woman drinking coffee at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner that morning. She smiled twice, and frowned once. Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. There was nothing unusual about the rhythm.

Tamika Flynn sat in the booth across from her.

Now, Tamika was not normally in the habit of going for coffee with horrifying nightmare-demigods. On the other hand, this particular nightmare had sworn to (among other things) possess as few people as possible, and only set off small and manageable explosions, in return for Tamika picking something up for her at the library book sale.

"Here," said Tamika, passing the battered paperback copy of _Bridge of Birds_ into the woman's horrifying talons. "I kept my side of the deal. You better keep yours."

"Oh, I always honor my promises," cooed the woman, in a voice like amber and rust. "But I sense there's something interesting about you that you're not saying, isn't there? A pact of safety isn't all you want. There's also a group of troublesome adults you are desperately hoping to get rid of."

Tamika knew better than to make loose requests around an apocalyptic chaos-being. "Might be."

That was when the rhythm _got_ unusual: It turned into a tango. Accompanied by deep horns, and the distinct sounds of tambourines.

"So you little Night Valean rebel, you want to know about destruction?" The woman chuckled. "The Woman from Italy will tell you. If you want to destroy a lot of people, you take a page out of my book, because it is in my blood."

An even firmer tap, and the table between them aged a thousand years in a split second, crumbling into dust. The Woman picked up a handful of it and let it trail between her fingers like hourglass sand.

"Be Italian, be Italian," she crooned, low and throaty and intense. "Track them down and smoke them out from where they hide. Be Italian, be Italian: hear no pleading! That's an insult to their pride. Be uncaring, and unsparing: don't be moved by disapproval or by pain. Go on smiling as they're dying — resurrect a few to do it all again!"

The other diners and the wait staff at the Moonlite All-Nite were pulled in by the rhythm, circling around behind her.

"Be a poison, be a nightmare! Leave despair and devastation in your wake!" For every line the Woman sang, the backup diners chorused a droning echo. "Be Italian, be Italian — till your name alone's enough to make them quake!"

The whole thing blossomed into a full-fledged dance sequence, with other furniture and appliances in the diner disintegrating to the rhythm. Eerie red-and-gold floodlights lit up the piles of sand.

"Be...a poison!" intoned the Woman, echoed by a now-enthusiastic chorus and punctuated by smacks of tambourines against hips. "Be a nightmare! Leave despair and devastation in your wake! Be Italian! Be Italian! Till your name alone's enough to make them quake...!"

She held that note for a solid ten seconds, storm winds whirling the dust around her feet, until the triumphant final chord.

"...yeah," said Tamika. "If I promise to take it into consideration, will you promise not to destroy anything else?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

After his highly-unromantic fiasco of a duet with Cecil, Carlos was already in a shaky mood when he got to the lab.

(Was he hurt? Or angry? Or frightened? Or some combination of the above? This would be a fascinating thing to do scientific experiments on, if he was in any mood to do calm and sober experiments.)

His teammates noticed immediately. Rochelle, for example, kept making half-formed noises like she wanted to open a conversation, but was too hesitant to start. Dave kept scuttling away when their paths crossed, not wanting to risk having to acknowledge anything emotional. Li Hua ignored him, the way she did with anyone who didn't seem likely to be amiable to doing things for her.

And on top of all that, an hour into the work day, a Strexcorp official in a pitch-black suit with an orange triangle pin came to their door.

"It is my great pleasure to inform you that your building has been purchased by Strexcorp Synernists, Inc.!" he chirped, handing Carlos an envelope with the paperwork. "We only accept company-certified StrexCash, and if we don't get our rent by the end of the week, we'll be forced to throw you out on the street and confiscate all your equipment, and possibly your lives, to cover the loss. Have a nice day!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

After his highly-unromantic fiasco of a duet with Carlos, Cecil was already in a shaky mood when he got to the studio.

His employers noticed immediately. "Why, Cecil, don't look so gloomy!" exclaimed Lauren. "You should try smiling. It'll brighten your whole mood!"

"Please leave my office," said Cecil. "I'm working on a segment."

The police reports he was reading — various incidents about unlawful bloodstone circles being built around town by misbehaving children — might actually have cheered him up, if he'd been allowed to read them. Lauren, of course, couldn't leave him alone. "It's just that I can't stand to see you unhappy when I know for a fact that you have so much to smile about. You have a wonderful boyfriend — Carlos the scientist, right? At the house where they put up all those bizarre yet strangely festive Outsider decorations. You have a dear younger sister — Delphine Palmer-Carlsberg, down on Ouroboros Road. And you have a precious little niece — Janice — only eight, but already older than her mother was when _your_ parents died — how lucky! And let's not forget about that adorable cat you have in the men's room."

She grinned. It involved a lot more teeth than a standard human grin. Or even a standard alligator grin, like the one Cecil's elementary school gym coach had had.

"And of course, you adore this job...all in all, you have _so many_ things that make you happy! So many people that you _love very much!_ I know _all about them_ , which is why I think you'll agree that when I tell you to smile, you should smile!"

Cecil considered the words Lauren had spoken.

He considered all the words Lauren had _not_ spoken.

And slowly, painfully, he stretched his face into a tortured parody of a smile.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

The Book Club had an excellent ad-hoc base in a system of caves in Radon Canyon. It had a reading room, it had a kitchen with soda in the fridge and Girl Scout cookies in the cupboards, it had latrines with top-of-the-line anti-smell wards. It also had an engineering cavern, where they retrofitted the Strexcorp helicopters they kept knocking out of the sky.

Renée Carlsberg and Josh Craton were on lookout duty when the alarm went up from a guard post to the west. Someone had breached their defenses. Renée holstered a couple of hardcover Tolkien special editions, hopped on Josh's back (he was a motorcycle today), and rode straight over.

Turned out the person who had been detained was not a threat to anyone or anything there. Except Renée's dignity.

"Dad!" she complained, shoving her way past the kids with raised slingshots pointing at her father. "What are you doing here? This is _my_ thing. You're _embarrassing_ me!"

"Aw, pumpkin, I won't take over your big project," said Dad, hands amiably raised. "You kids are doing a great job running this rebellion all by yourselves, and I am so proud! It's just, Lauren Mallard, you know, the radio producer, had a big up-tempo group number at the bus station earlier. About how she's running basically all Strexcorp's operations in Night Vale now. And one of the verses mentioned that she knows you kids have a base out here, and they're sending in air support from Desert Bluffs as we speak."

"So? We can _handle_ as many helicopters as they wanna throw at us, _geez_."

"Of course you can, sweetie! But the lyrics also specified that she's sending fighter jets."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Hannah stared at the spreadsheets in front of her with a creeping sense of dread. She'd been working at them all morning, but no amount of arithmancy, or secretly chopping up Strexcorp's biomachines and serving them as pie, was going to save them now. The White Sand was bankrupt.

And Strexcorp owned the banks and most of the government now, so if she formally declared bankruptcy, they would get everything the Gutierrezes had left.

"Dear?" asked Lucy, showing up in the office doorway and making Hannah jump. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Do you think you could call the shipping company? The truck didn't come in this morning, and we are almost out of some of the toppings, and I need to know if they're on their way or if we're going to have to start rationing the flower sprinkles and candied rat-tails."

Under the desk, Hannah gripped an unpaid invoice, hard enough to crumple the envelope.

"Hannah...?"

Hannah took a deep, unsteady breath. " _Preciosa_ , you know how I haven't been telling you how bad things are? Well, now I need to tell you."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Delphine was not normally the kind of employee who abandoned work in the middle of a shift...but an emergency had come up and her husband was unavoidably occupied, which meant someone had to pick Janice up from school.

Also, Delphine's employers these days sucked.

She borrowed a squad car for the first leg of the journey, then crept through secret passages and hidden back routes the rest of the way to Night Vale Elementary. In the bushes across from the bus lane, she stowed her black balaclava, blowdart gun, and ammo belt in a fake mailbox; let down her hair and did some hasty styling; and put on some nice jewelry and a fashionable scarf to make it look like she was dressed all in black purely to draw attention to her accessorizing. Now to find her daughter in the crowd....

Under the awning, with other eight-year-olds milling around her legs, Delphine searched for Janice's telltale purple-black braids and Carnacious Canary backpack. No sign of either.

Until she heard a knocking above her head, and a stage-whispered "Hi, Mom!"

Janice was flat on her stomach on the sloped awning, peeping over the edge. "An admirable choice of hiding place, darling," said Delphine, "but what on earth are you doing up there?"

"Proving how good I am at hiding and spying," said Janice. "Only now I can't get down."

Delphine sighed. "Well, you were excellent at the first two. Jump into my arms, and we'll give your climbing skills a bit of practice at the recreation center before Scouts. Would you like that?"

"Even though Strexcorp bought the rec center?"

Had they? Good grief. Delphine would have to see about the Girl Scouts meeting elsewhere, because Strex was sure to charge an assembly fee. "Then perhaps not. We'll see what we can do at home."

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"We are the heart and soul of Night Vale!" shouted Tamika and the well-armed readers around her, standing in a hurriedly-built bloodstone circle in the middle of Big Rico's Pizza. "We will not give up. We will not be moved. We will not stop fighting back against invaders in our town!"

It got tentative applause from the customers, even the ones who worked for Strex-owned businesses, which was most of them. Even a few of the employees clapped, and Strex had bought Big Rico's months ago.

("I like this place," murmured a shadowy, storm-crackling entity in a corner booth. "It's Italian.")

While Tamika called for support, a couple of her companions murmured prayers of protection. As long as they had a bare minimum level of support and strength feeding into the bloodstone circle, it would keep them safe from anything Strex sent at them. That included humans, biomachines, and bullets.

When Strexcorp gyropters started landing outside, though, it was like hitting a mute button. The applause shut off. The appreciative murmurs vanished. Customers suddenly remembered that they had somewhere to be. Cashiers and servers abruptly needed to take bathroom breaks.

The bloodstones around Tamika began to falter just as a row of uniformed Strex security forces burst in.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

 _Special!_ shouted the chalkboard outside the White Sand Ice Cream Shop, in bright, colorful chalk. _Today Only — Half Off Everything! Bring A Friend — Get A Sundae FREE!!_

The employees had been given the day off, and their paychecks early. The place was packed; Lucy and Hannah themselves were fielding all the orders.

"If my friend's not here because he sent me on his behalf, and by 'friend' I mean 'boss', can I still have the sundae?" asked Maureen the NVCR intern, eyeing the fast-dwindling tub of pine ice cream.

"You certainly can," decided Hannah.

Could have knocked Lucy over with a feather, hearing that. (Although it would have been a waste of a feather — they needed those for toppings.) Her rule-following, calculating, business-savvy Hannah, handing out free merchandise that easily? Never thought she'd see the day.

Of course, she never thought she would see the day they had to give up the store, either.

But after building this place from the ground up, painting her, nurturing her, filling her with satisfied customers and delicious food, there was one thing they _couldn't_ let happen: handing her over to Strex.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Half a dozen bruised, bleeding, and exhausted teens and preteens barely managed to stay invisible long enough to sneak to the nearest safe place. Even though it was right next door.

"Rochelle, can you grab some more antiseptic out of the cupboard?" called Carlos as he rounded up all the lab's first-aid kits. Plus some equipment that was not, strictly speaking, designed for medical use...but that was kept clean and sterile, for scientific reasons, and could be repurposed. "Li Hua! Did you move the stuff that gets bloodstains out again?"

With concentrated effort from the scientists, and the usual skill and bravery from the kids, they managed to bandage a dozen cuts, staunch two bloody noses, set the bones of three broken fingers, and get everyone their very own ice pack. "I'm so sorry you guys had to go through this," said Carlos, counting out ibuprofen for most of them and something stronger for the ones with broken bones. "If we'd known you'd be next door...."

He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. He'd been about to promise the scientists would have come over and helped, except...would they? So far, none of them had gotten involved in any real skirmishes against Strexcorp. All they had really done, aside from Carlos being moral support for Cecil's rebel actions, was boycott Strex's goods and services. When they remembered. As long as it wasn't impossible due to Strex owning every business in the market.

"Can't be calling up individual supporters every time we do a demonstration," said Tamika, holding her ice pack against a black eye. (Black in the sense that the skin was swollen with heavy bruising, and black in the sense that the iris was deep and dark and full of ageless wisdom.) "We _oughta_ be able to count on finding sympathizers everywhere, any time."

"Cowards," mumbled one of the teens whose nose was stuffed with tissues.

From his lab coat pocket, Carlos pulled out the envelope with the Strexcorp deed...and the bill. Strex could, if pressured, take the laboratory. They could yank a _lot_ of science right out from under him and his team. When all Carlos had ever wanted to do here (okay, _most_ of what Carlos wanted to do here) was science.

Did it make him a coward to be worried, to not be sure whether he wanted to fight back?

...glancing at a fourteen-year-old with bruise-swollen and splinted fingers, Carlos thought, _yeah, it probably does._

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

A rousing guitar-and-drum-kit riff started up all over town.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"How do you do objective research when your world's getting less objective each day?" sang Carlos, over the insistent thudding of drums. He paced half the room, gesturing with the envelope: "Strex is sordid, protests thwarted, now this order: to keep your job, pay...rent!"

On the other side of the lab, Tamika, too, was on her feet. "How do you fight a war when your troops are sore, and all your allies underground?" she intoned, turning from her wounded comrades to Carlos and the scientists. "When the public support inclines to Strexcorp, how do you bring the scared around?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"Almost emptied the freezer," reported Hannah from the kitchen.

Lucy put a protective hand on the wall of their building. "We can't let them seize 'er —"

In unknowing chorus with Carlos on the other side of town, they sang: "How we gonna pay, how we gonna pay, how we gonna pay Strexcorp's rent?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

At the station, the same guitar riff followed Cecil as strode down the hall toward the recording studio. "How do you share the news when there's so much to lose if you don't stick to the company line?"

Maureen, at the door, handed him a printout of notes (and a scoop of ice cream). "How do you not lose your soul when they've seized all control —"

"— and they own your time?" serenaded Cecil along with her. Lowering his voice, he added, "Say it on the down-low —"

Maureen nodded. "With ciphers —"

"— and Morse code!" Cecil slid into his seat, pulled on his headphones, and leaned into the mic. In chorus with Maureen, and the two or three other non-Strex-imported employees still in the building, he sang: "How we gonna pay, how we gonna pay, how we gonna pay Strexcorp's rent?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Out in Radon Canyon, the kids on duty at the secret base were frantically loading books and equipment onto helicopters. Everything with identifying information had to go first. Everything else...well, whatever Strex confiscated, they would just have to replace.

Steve was pitching in, doing his part...and trying to keep an eye on his eleven-year-old, without being obvious enough about it that she noticed and got mad.

"How do you let your kids go — step away, although you just can't know if they're coming back?" he sang, shoving a box full of bloodstones into the cargo compartment of a helicopter. "'Dad, leave me alone' — oh gosh, how she's grown —" He looked up with a start at an unfamiliar noise in the distance. "Wait, what's that drone — they're coming — the attack!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

At the Palmer-Carlsberg house, Janice leaned impatiently over the back of the couch, looking out the front window at the empty sidewalk. "Where _is_ Dad?"

Delphine pursed her lips. "This could be bad."

As she stepped out into the front yard with Janice at her heels, they sang — though neither one could hear it — in time with her husband and the children out at the canyon: "How we gonna save what, how we gonna save what, how we gonna save what Strexcorp's rent?"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Hannah and Lucy darted around the closed and shuttered White Sand, setting charges.

As if she was quoting a review, Hannah singsonged, "Look forward to our great service blowing your mind."

Lucy, beaming, joined in the game. "You're sure to hear our name a lot today on Yelp!"

Banging and crashing from the front door. A window smashed.

Holding hands, Lucy and Hannah backed away, smiling grim smiles. "Come in as we leave the food gig behind — find out what else our business can do!"

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

Plenty of citizens of Night Vale had already been gathering on the sidewalks or leaning out of windows to watch the helicopters menace the ice cream shop.

And in the dark void of that night, the fireball could be seen from three blocks away.

So there were dozens, maybe hundreds of bystanders to stand witness and sing a rock memorial: "How do you stand up for what's right when they keep finding ways to get to your heart? With threats or pay or death, they'll tear you inside-out till you're torn apart — rent!—"

And dozens more approaching, drawn by the chorus and the light. At the front of a throng coming down Main Street, Tamika, Carlos, and their respective teams led the response: "How can you connect in an age where strangers, landlords, lovers, your own bloodstones betray?"

They turned a corner, and suddenly they were one crowd, all together: "What binds the fabric together when the raging hands of corporate change keep ripping away?"

Tamika's voice rang out above all others. "Draw a line in the sand — Night Vale, make a stand!"

"Don't stay out of the fight!" shouted someone from a high window.

"This ends tonight!" yelled a voice across the road.

" _They're not so tough in Desert Bluffs!_ " bellowed the mob, punctuated by a thundering of drums.

Carlos held up the paperwork from Strex. "We're not gonna pay," he and the scientists sang, as he slowly, deliberately tore it in half.

"We're not gonna pay," agreed people all across the crowd.

"We're not gonna pay Strexcorp's rent! This month's rent — next month's rent — rent, rent, rent, rent, rent! We're not gonna pay rent —"

Carlos tossed the scraps of contract in the direction of the fire. Billows and updrafts sucked them in, lifting them into the sky as they blackened and disintegrated.

"— 'cause everything is rent...!"

The silhouettes of upraised fists stood out stark and black against the flames.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

A few blocks away, Lauren Mallard sipped her latte and smirked.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

From the triumphant angry guitar screams to the final crashing chord, Carlos felt — not _good_ , not when it had taken two deaths to get them to this point, but _powerful_.

They were a community. They were strong. They didn't have to take anything Strex threw at —

Shouts and screams erupted at the edges of the crowd.

— they were _surrounded_ , was what they were. Carlos was tall enough to see the new arrivals: a barricade of people, three or four rows deep, all dressed in bright yellow riot gear.

And whichever Strexcorp subsidiary had them pinned — the imported security forces, the Sheriff's secret police, the Green Market food co-op — they had started throwing tear gas canisters.

 

{#===|===|===|}

 

"You know," mused the Woman-shaped fractal of rust lounging in Lauren's office, "I'm so glad I didn't promise that cute little monster-killing girl not to revel in the pain and torment of people that someone _else_ had tortured."

Lauren basked in the screams...in the roar of the flames...in the delicious rhythm of punching. "Mmm."

(The fact that her least favorite radio host had been getting possessed all evening — which for some reason involved a lot of screechy badly-rhymed quatrains — was icing on the cake.)

And the fun was only just beginning. How many of these rabble-rousers should she have arrested? How long should she let them go without medical treatment while in custody? Decisions, decisions!

One thing was certain, though: there was _no way_ Night Vale's putrid little rebellion was coming back from this one.

 

 

 

{#===|===|===|}

ACT ONE - CURTAIN

{#===|===|===|}

**Author's Note:**

> Today's songs to the tune of "[Be Italian](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=foqgaD6-ERI)" ([lyrics](http://www.lyricsmania.com/be_italian_lyrics_fergie.html)) from _Nine_ , and the eponymous "[Rent](http://artists.letssingit.com/rent-lyrics-rent-qrz2z5f)" ([movie version lyrics](http://artists.letssingit.com/rent-lyrics-rent-qrz2z5f)) from _RENT_.
> 
> Check out the WtNV discussion posts on [nightvale_dogpark](http://nightvale-dogpark.dreamwidth.org/). Follow me at [sailorptah](http://sailorptah.dreamwidth.org/). And hey, as long as I've got you here, take a look at [But I'm A Cat Person](http://catperson.erinptah.com/).
> 
> NEXT TIME:  
> [House lights rise for intermission. Audience members pick their jaws up off the floor, stretch their legs, and murmur to their neighbors about what they think is in store for Act II.]


End file.
